


The 36 Questions That Lead To Love

by Writeonthrough (Schroederplayspiano)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Canon Compliant, F/M, Love Story Over Time, Perthshire Cottage, Sci-Ops Era (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), The Bus, The Playground
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7415416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schroederplayspiano/pseuds/Writeonthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a New York Times article excites S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy students, they have the genius idea of testing the questions out on the inseparable Fitzsimmons. A pair who by everyone’s bets, should have gotten together way before now. The way the students see it--It’s a win-win. Either Fitzsimmons proves The New York Times wrong—which Fitzsimmons will love, or the pair will finally fall for each other—which the students will love. Then again, it’s a stupid psychological experiment. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Unusual bustling in the Academy hallway outside distracted Fitz and Jemma their psychically linked concentration.Their heads rose from their most recent invention in unison, foreheads creasing at the commotion. 

“They’ve proven Arthur Aaron’s work!” 

“The New York Times just published an article on Mandy Len Catron’s essay.” 

Jemma stood first, crossing her arms, and Fitz soon followed her motions while the same thought passed through their minds. Since when were seemingly famous names celebrated in any S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Academy hallway—not to mention within their own department, that neither Fitz nor Jemma had heard of?

By the time she had reached the door frame and flattened her back to the adjacent wall, she realized the complete unnecessary foolishness that her tiptoeing had been—no one could hear over the ruffling of newspapers and laptop clicks.

Nevertheless she felt Fitz sneaking up behind her. His towering height over her soon dropped two inches, forcing Jemma to smirk at his copied tip-toe. The pair curved around the door frame to listen in on the chatter.

“It suggests that romantic intimacy can be achieved and accelerated by having them ask each other a specific series of personal questions. Thirty-Six to be exact.” 

“Accelerated intimacy?” One male student gave his friend a friendly slap. “Sign me up! I’m all for getting to the sex sooner.” 

“Anything that gets me out of the long-drawn out process of wooing women, man!” 

While Fitz glued his cheek to the doorframe, Jemma rolled her eyes and dropped her shoulders. She turned back to their work in the lab and regretted any time wasted to psychological nonsense. 

“Hey!” A female student’s voice called out. “We should make Fitzsimmons test the New York Times’ new theory.”

Jemma’s head spun around. Her jaw dropped. Fitz unstuck his cheek from the side of the door, and flipped over to replace Jemma’s position, straightening his backside against the wall. 

For the first time since the excitement, the hallway fell silent. Paper ruffles and laptop clicks came to a halt as every student looked up at the announcement.

“Fitzsimmons?” another female student chimed in. “I thought we gave up that experiment. If they haven’t fallen for each other by now…”

“All the more reason!” the first male student responded. “Guys, come on. It’s a win-win. Either Fitzsimmons proves The New York Times wrong—which they will love, or they finally fall for each other—which we will love. It’s a stupid psychological experiment. Whatever could go wrong?” 

Jemma heard Fitz pounding his head against the wall and mistakenly confused it for the throbbing inside her own head.Once she realized its source, she sunk into the nearest chair.

“Well, there’s the matter of actually getting them to agree to do it,” the female student offered.

“Nah,” someone else responded. “That’s easy.” 

“Really?”

“How?” Themale’s friend asked. “We’re just going to lock them up in a classroom and say, ‘Hey, we know how much you guys love testing hypotheses out. Try this one!’ I mean, that’s ridiculous!” 

“No, no it’s not.” The male student started down the hallway towards the classroom where Fitz and Jemma had claimed as their personal favorite a year ago. “That—my friend—is your first stroke of genius!”

Squirming around the room didn’t help Fitz and Jemma escape it. They knew they were doomed, for if they left the room, they would surely be caught and if they stayed they would be locked in until further notice, forced to test a theory they wanted nothing with. 

Before they could decide in which direction to run—or hide—the looming voice appeared before them. “Fitzsimmons. Isn’t so nice that you two are _always_ together? Your predictability makes all of our lives just that much easier.” 

“Milton,” Jemma said his name as if dragging it through the mud. “Come on. Don’t do this. This is ridiculous.”

“No, Jemma.” He approached his ex-girlfriend and extended the article for her to take. “As I’m sure you heard me say in the hall, this experiment is not ridiculous—it’s a stroke of genius. Perhaps so much so that even the two of you can’t figure it out.” 

Jemma’s eyes turned to slits. “So this is…what? Punishment for breaking up with you?”

“Punishment?” Milton pulled back in confusion. “Honey, I’m doing you a favor.” He reached for Jemma’s forearm and forced the article in her palm. She gave him a piecing stare. “All thirty-six questions are written within the article.” He pointed up. “Remember there’s a video camera in all academy classrooms recording video without audio—” He glanced at Fitz, who crossed his arms and shook his head in disgust. “—I know we’re all torn up about it…my point being we’ll know if you’re actually doing the experiment or not and when to let you out.” Milton smirked as he looked from Fitz to Jemma. “Happy love-experimenting, Fitzsimmons.”

Without any more dramatic flare, Milton left the room and locked the door behind him. Slowly, Fitz and Jemma’s eye lines met—anger in one and mortification in the other—as they realized the article in Jemma’s hand might be scientifically proven to change their relationship forever.

* * *

_Thud._  

Jemma’s grey hair whipped around her as she turned to look for the source of the noise. She hated being in their Scottish cottage’s old attic alone. If only Fitz were here, but of course some things she had to do alone—gathering items for his birthday present was just one of those things.

Her gaze darted around the wooden boards, still searching for whatever had dropped and cursing herself for forgetting her glasses downstairs (and the fact that she needed glasses at all). An old framed newspaper article on the floor caught her attention, and she reached for it, bringing the text closer until it came into view.

**The 36 Questions That Lead To Love**

Jemma’s heart swelled in her chest. She sunk her back into one of the attic’s pillars and let her hand brush over the dusted glass. 

For a day permanently etched in her memory, she couldn’t remember the last time she had thought about being locked up in that room with Fitz by…what was his name again? She shook her head. It didn’t matter. 

All that mattered were the answers that followed and the fact that after that day, their lives were never the same. 


	2. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely the first question wasn’t meant to become *this* personal.

The space between them in the classroom barely added up to ten feet. However, to both Fitz and Jemma, it seemed as if a chasm had appeared in the middle of the horrible checkered floor and was determined to keep growing both in width and depth despite their efforts to remain calm in their own unique hostage situation. 

Fitz spoke first. “Did I ever mention to you I never liked your ex-boyfriend, even when you were dating him?” 

“You didn’t have to,” Jemma dropped her shoulders and blew out her breath. “I knew.And right now, we’re in the same boat about that.” 

“More like rather locked in the same room.” 

Jemma scoffed, “Right.” She reached up to tuck a loose hair strand behind her ear, only to discover her long brown hair hadn’t moved out of place since she reached to do so a minute ago. 

Loud ticks beat out from the obnoxious wall clock above the white board, emphasizing their prolong awkward silence. Not once, in their entire year and a half friendship, could they hear silence between them. Usually too busy talking over one other or reading each other’s thoughts, a bird’schirping or a pencil sharpening could hardly pervade their connection. Now, the clock’s ticks were so loud that Fitz soon realized that Jemma was tapping the rolled up article against her thigh in time with the beaten out seconds. 

Shaking his head and reaching for the article, Fitz announced, “This is silly.” 

“Which part?” She blurted out in response. “Being trapped in a classroom and forced to ask each other personal questions or that we’re not doing anything in an effort to escape or the fact like we’re acting like strangers when when we’ve hardly spend time with anyone else?”  


“Both.”

Jemma heard a determined quality in his voice that surprised her. He surprised her even more when he snatched the article from her fist with a strong force.Once her hand was free, her thumb snapped back to her fingers as if by a magnetic force and returned to her thigh. Fitz flattened the article on the desk, automatically skimming through the first set of questions. “Oh,” he observed with relief, “This isn’t that bad, Simmons….In fact, we could even have fun with these…”

Jemma’s eyebrows narrowed. “Fun?” 

“Okay…Well…” Fitz placed his hands on sides and focused on the ceiling. “The way I see it we have to find a way stick it to Milton. I’ve been thinking—” He claimed, even though he hadn’t been. His mind had blank as soon as the door locked. Although, the wheels in his mind turned at a fast enough pace that he could come up with brilliant ideas on the fly. “We have three options. The first is that we could find the camera, dislodge it, and escape through the Academy’s air vents—which you and I,” he gestured between them, “could totally do. It’ll be practice for our field assessments. The second is to pretend to be asking each other these questions when really talking about some else entirely since the recording doesn’t capture sound…or—”

“Or?” Jemma surprised herself with her eagerness at the possibility for a third option. 

Fitz shrugged, “We do the experiment and ask each other these silly questions. They don’t look that bad and I have to admit the idea of sticking to The New York Times, not to mention Milton—is appealing.” 

A smile broke out on Jemma’s face. “I’m with you there.”

“Alright? So…” Fitz searched the classroom as if they were about to discuss a secret mission that he shouldn’t be excited about, but truly was. He pulled out a chair, its metal legs screeching across the floor and plopped himself in the plastic seat. Then, he attempted to flatten the article once again. “So…We’re doing this?”

Jemma lifted a second chair, spinning it in the air to face him, and set it down across the small desk to sit in. She gave him one, firm, head nod. “We’re doing this.”

For some odd reason, their stomachs both fluttered with an eruption of butterflies. They did their best to ignore the feeling, though, writing it off as pure ridiculousness. Fitz and Jemma inhaled in unison and on the out breath, their eyes met and uneasy chuckle broke out.

“Okay. Okay!” Jemma waved a hand between them, “Let’s just start.” Placing a single index finger on the flimsy newspaper, she flipped it around so she could read it. “The first question is—” She paused and retreated back in surprise. “Oh, you’re right, these are easy. Was this question on your college applications? I swear, I wrote three or four essays on ‘Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?’”

“Did you?” Fitz scooted in his chair, “And who did you write the essays on?”

“Marie Curie,” Jemma stated with pride.

“Marie Curie!” Fitz gasped and faked his surprise. “And what tip the scales for you? The discovering elements thing, the nobel prize thing, the whole early 1900s time period thing, which—” He raised his index finger as Jemma parted her lips to speak. “—I know you have thing for so don’t even try to convince me otherwise…Or, was it the whole badass woman scientist thing?” 

“All of it. I mean, how cool would it be to discover a new element?” She could barely contain her excitement as she begun her ramble. “To meet her and to have dinner with her and be able to get inside her head and ask her questions about her process. It wouldn’t even matter how bad twentieth century food was—to have the chance to learn from her, not just about science, but her attitude about life and being a woman in a man’s field…Ah, and don’t get me started on the fact that she is the only person—not woman—person to win the nobel prize twice….”

She started on it anyway. For being the biggest fan of her enthusiastic rambles, Fitz was surprised at how easily he could drown them out, at least this particular one… 

His world silenced and darkened. Scientific facts and childhood memories flooded his mind and muddle together as he tried to come up with an answer. Once it did, his whole body tensed. 

“Fitz? Are you even listening to me?” 

“What?” He brought his focus back to Jemma. “Sorry.”

She reached out across the small desk, her hand stopping just before her fingers tips collided with his arm hairs—which were currently standing up on their ends. “Fitz? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he shook his head to rid himself of emotion. “Fine.” 

Her expression captured her disbelief. “We don’t have to do this, Fitz. We don’t. Either of your other two options are fine with me.”

“I said I’m fine, Simmons.” He adjusted his position. “Ask me the question.”

“You want me to ask you the first question?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you know what the first question is?” 

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Jemma sat up and pulled the article closer. She read, “‘Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?’”

“My father,” he replied.

Both of their breathes caught. Somehow the obnoxious ticking clock even seemed to still. In that second, Jemma knew she had a choice: she could either brush it off and move on or ask him to elaborate. While her gut told her to choose the former, the look in Fitz’s eyes made her choose the latter.

“Your father?”

“Yeah…” So, it was true. Fitz had hoped she’d ask the question and a different answer would automatically come out. But, it didn’t. “I, uh, I’ve never met him. He left when my Mum was pregnant. I don’t let it bother me anymore and I rarely think about it…but, if I had the chance to talk to him one time over dinner—I might want to do that.”

Jemma watched the emotions play across his face, realizing she had never watched them movethrough him before, like she was a witness to a private moment.“Is he alive?” 

“Yeah…at least I think so.” Fitz shrugged, relived at how easily he could talk to Jemma about things other than science. “I’ve never tried to find him. I’ve never wanted to….But if he showed out of the blue, I would probably hear him out.”

* * *

_Bang. Crash._

Thirty seconds later and the sound of metal trays hitting the floor still echoed in Jemma’s head. When she opened her eyes, Fitz had gone. She knew he would be. 

Her gaze slowly moved towards the only man left in the room. Grey haired with stubble and blue eyes, Jemma saw it now: the similarities between Holden Radcliffe and her Fitz. She mentally kicked herself for not taking note of it before.

“Jemma…I…” The man who they had worked closely with for months now seemed like a complete stranger to her…except for his eyes. She knew his eyes. “I never meant for it to come out like that…I just…couldn’t hold it in any longer."

Her engagement ring felt cold as she brought her hands to her face. In an action meant to clear her head, she froze when she felt wet tears trickling down her cheeks. 

“I-I’m sorry.” 

She nodded at him indifferently, grateful the lab’s exit was feet away and the man wasn’t stopping either of them from leaving. Before she knew it, her legs carried her out the door.

“Fitz!” Jemma called out once outside. “Fitz!”

The sound of soda cans being kicked against a cement wall directed Jemma to Fitz’s location. She shoved her hands in her pockets and the the wind pull her hair back as she walked. 

Once she reached him, Fitz halted mid-kick. The couple stood still for a minute, soaking in the raw emotion of the other.

“I’m going to kill him,” he blurted out. 

Jemma dropped her shoulders. “Ugh, Fitz.”

“No.” Fitz insisted. “I’m serious.” 

“Come on, Fitz…You are not going to kill your own father.” 

Fitz punted one more can against the wall. “Don’t call him that!”

“Fine. You want to run? You want to escape? I’ll do that with you. That’s fine. We can come up with three different options as to what to do. But, let me tell you, killing Radcliffe is not going to be on the option list!” Her booming voice echoed it alleyway. She lowered it once the echo came back to her, and continued, “And, if you were being honest with yourself—” Her voice cracked a little, she pulled her left hand from her pocket and ran her fingers through her hair. “You wouldn’t want it to be!” 

Fitz wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he focused on something a little above her head. “No. We’re not doing this. I can’t.” He walked up to her, reached for the hand that was still tangled in her hair, and tried yanking off his engagement ring from her finger. “I can’t have him be tied to you too.” 

“Hey!” She yanked her arm back, shielding the ring with her other hand. “That’s mine. You can’t take it from me! And besides, I promised you it would never come off my finger…So, so, that’s just one more thing you are going to have find a way to deal with!” 

“Jemma…” His voice longed for her. 

She came to him willingly, stepping into his personal space, wrapping her arms around him, and resting her chin on his shoulder. 

“You’re stuck with me,” she promised, sealing her promise with kisses along the curve of his neck. “We’re get through this together, just like we always do.”


	3. Would you like to be famous? In what way?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Jemma, telling Fitz about her big plans for their future together is nothing compared the possibility that their future would be something she never could have imagined
> 
> ***Thanks for sharing all your enthusiasm you guys! It just adds to the joyful process of writing this story!

Fitz’s vulnerability shot chills down Jemma’s spin. Halfway through straightening her back in hopes the coldness would evaporate, she realized all his emotions on the subject had finished processing through his expression. Within the next second, a sixth sense promised her that the need to express any further concern for his well being would be unnecessary.

Still, his face entranced her as it never did before. Sure, she often relied on it to confer scientific theses or to celebrate a proven diagnosis, so she knew she could always find more data in his expression if she needed a back up source, but she never appreciated how much more she could find there if she looked at him for more than five seconds.

Jemma shifted in her seat, “If your father ever did show up out of the blue, I would probably kill him.”

“Kill him?” Fitz nodded, considering. “Huh,” a smirk appeared on his face and it added a sparkle to his eye. “A little dramatic, don’t you think, Simmons?”

“Absolutely not…Although—” For some reason, she found her next confession harder to say. “I’m sure the deepest regret would fill up anyone who had abandoned you, so I bet he already feels dead inside.”

His reaction to her words made her hate her new discovery of reading his face. Now, all she needed to do was notice his expression to know that his heart had swelled in his chest. Or, maybe it was her own heart that had swelled. The fact that she couldn’t distinguish between their two hearts made her impatient to change the subject. She started to tap her foot against the tile below her desk.

“Is that your way of saying you’d never abandon me, Simmons?”

Her foot stilled. “No.”

“Oh,” Fitz readjusted his posture. “Ok.”

Jemma’s forehead creased. “I didn’t think I ever needed to say that out loud.”

 _Would his heart stop please stop fluttering?_ Jemma thought. _It is passed the point of annoying. And—It’s not me. My heart doesn’t flutter. Thank you very much—well, hearts can’t actually flutter. Can Fitz please interrupt me now?_

“You never know,” Fitz kept the conversation going. “We have thirty-five more questions to go through. You might abandon me before we even finish them all.”

“Never.”

“Well, we’ll just see what happens, won’t we?”

Jemma leaned forward on the desk and crossed her arms. “We’re in this together compadre.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  
  
 Fitz tilted his head at her. Her chin now rested on her crossed arms, causing her to look up at his now hovering figure. While she waited for him to break the silence, he had a chance to admire her creamy complexion up close.

“Fitz.”

“Yeah?” She answered his question with a nod to the newspaper article. “Oh, right. Ok. Next question.” He spun the flimsy article towards him and perused it until he found where they left off. “Would you like to be famous? In what way?” A beat past between them before Fitz slapped the article. “I already know your answer.”

“You do not.”

“Simmons. You already answered it.”

Still resting her chin on her elbow, her brow narrowed. “When did I already answer it?”

“You just said you wanted to be Marie Curie—”

“—No. I said I wanted to have dinner with her. There’s a difference—” 

“—Have dinner with her to understand her process so you could know how she worked to become the first woman to win the Nobel Prize twice—” Jemma opened her mouth to speak, but Fitz wouldn’t let her. “I assume you want to be the second one.”

Jemma sat up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m just repeating your words back to you,” Fitz spat back. “Unless you forgot them already—or were lying, both of which I highly doubt.”

“Why would I want to be famous for something that’s already been done before? That defeats the purpose of being famous.”

He looked up to the ceiling, thinking, before returning to her. “Does it…?”

“Of course it does!”

“There are new musicians and artists who become famous for doing the same thing thousands of people have done before them. Actors reach fame all the time by pretending to be someone else. Do you know how rare it is to achieve something that’s never been done before?”

“Well, I’m going to do it. We are never going to stop exploring the universe until we find new scientific evidence that will change the universe as we know it. And when we do, we will win—not one, but two Nobel Prizes—becoming the first team ever to win two.”

He blinked at her, once. Twice. “We?”

“Ugh, Fitz!” Jemma threw her arms in the air and leaned back. “Of course ‘we.’ I just told you I’d never abandon you!”

“Yeah, but…” he took a moment to collect his thoughts and glanced at the ceiling again. He wondered where Milton was watching the camera feed from—if he watched it at all. “Saying it and planning it are two different things.”

“You haven’t thought about life after the Academy? I know you have.”

“Other than wanting to do best my work to help S.H.I.E.L.D. and its mission, not really.”

Jemma’s forehead creased. “So…you don’t want to be famous? Not in any way? You’ve never even thought about it?”

“Oh,” Fitz scoffed. “My turn now, is it?”

“Yes, your turn. Answer the question.”

“I didn’t realize we were done discussing the famous future you’ve been planning for the two of us.”

“No, no, I—” Jemma shook her head. Her long hair flowing from side to side as she did so. “I didn’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“I meant it only for scientific purposes.”

“Scientific purposes?” His voice raised with the question while his body filled with amusement as Jemma stumbled through the trap she had set for herself. “And to which scientific purposes are you referring? The scientific purposes of winning a Nobel Prize or the purposes of proving to Milton neither of us are interested in any sort of romantic future together?”

Jemma swallowed and bit her lip. “Fitz. It’s your turn. Answer the question.”

“I asked you a question first,” he insisted, frozen in the audacity of the insinuation he just uttered.

“No, technically, I asked you first.”

“Simmons—”

She slammed her palm on the article and dragged it across the desk. Determined to regain their focus, she read the question with precision and clarity. “Question number two, ‘Would you like to be famous? In what way?’”

“No.” Fitz replied simply. “I would not like to be famous in any way.”

Jemma’s eyes narrowed to silts. “Great answer. Let’s move on, shall we—”

“Unless, of course,” Jemma could sense Fitz’s gibe forming. “I could be famous with you—winning the Nobel Prize together…That would’t be too bad.”

“Gee. I’m touched.” Her attention returned to the article. “I’m reading the next question now…”

* * *

The sound of applause still rung in Jemma’s ears. The Stockholm theatre lobby seemed abandoned now compared to thirty minutes ago. Not for the first time, she wondered what was taking Fitz so long to meet them.

“Seriously?” Jemma turned at the sound of the teenager’s voice. “He’s still not out yet? Why does Dad feel the need to give everyone a handshake?”

“It’s polite, Marie. And the right thing to do,” Jemma reminded her daughter. “It’s your father’s big night, can you please give him the time to enjoy it?”

“He’s not shaking hands, Mom.” Another voice spoke from behind her. “Dad’s probably backstage, signing books, sis—”

Jemma sighed, “Matthew…” and turned to find Marie’s twin brother leaning against one of the theater’s marble pillars with his arms crossed and one ankle over the other. “Not tonight, please…”

Her son stepped closer. “You know it’s true. He’s not held up back there enjoying his success. The only way he’d enjoy it is if you had won the prize with him. I mean—did you hear his speech? It was all about you.”

Jemma blushed. “We all heard the speech, darling.”

Matthew continued, “I still don’t understand how…out of everything you two invented together, Dad is awarded the Nobel Prize for his Cloaking Design—the one invention he did when you guys were apart.”

“Well, we can’t understand everything in life, sweetie.”

Marie scoffed. “Says the scientist.”

“Oh, you too?” Jemma turned to her daughter. “You are so used to your parents doing everything together, that you can’t just be happy for one of their achievements?”

Marie lost her attitude and scanned her mother up and down. Her voice softened when she asked, “Can you, Mum?”

Jemma’s quick reply caught in her throat. She examined her daughter’s face (which looked so much like her twin brother’s) and suddenly found herself considering Marie’s question. “I—”

“Jemma!”

Grateful that Fitz’s voice broke into her thoughts, Jemma waved to him with a smile. After a moment she realized a much older man accompanied her husband down the lobby stairs. As the men came into view, her focused sharpened and she realized how familiar the second man looked.

“Who’s that with Dad?” Matthew’s voice penetrated Jemma’s panic.

“That’s—That’s—He—” Before Jemma could form her answer to the complicated question, the two men had made it down the stairs and Fitz was extending his arms to her for an embrace. Jemma met his lips for a celebratory kiss, but was too distracted by the old man to enjoy it.

“Congratulations, Daddy. Beautiful speech.” Marie reached out to give her father a hug.

Fitz kissed his daughter’s brown hair. “Thank you, sweetie.”

As Fitz hugged his son, Jemma’s gaze reluctantly met the old man’s. “What are you doing here?”

Holden Radcliffe gestured to Fitz’s award. “I came to see Fitz accept his big award. I didn’t want to miss it.”

“Why?” Jemma’s retort slipped off her tongue before she could stop it. “You’ve had no problem missing everything else.”

As the twins looked between their mother and the stranger, Fitz put a hand between his wife and his father. “Guys. Can we not do this is here, please?”

Both ignored Fitz; Jemma held her challenging gaze while Radcliffe couldn’t help help defending his actions over the years. “Jemma. You know I don’t spend time in Scotland. Frankly, it bores me to death—”

“Oh, just stop,” she insisted, knowing his excuses for not staying in touch with his family would multiply the more they kept talking.

Radcliffe pursed his lips together and nodded slightly. He knew better than to argue with her. Instead, he took the short time he had to examine his grandchildren. Seeing them in real life made the old pictures he had lose their value. For pictures couldn’t capture their sparkling blue eyes or their mannerisms or how their confused looks were better than their smiles because they mirrored the only expression he seemed to passed down to his son.

He blinked and the moment passed. “Well, Fitz,” he turned to his son and offered him his hand. Fitz took it. “My deepest congratulations, son. You achieved more than I ever could.”

Fitz’s jaw tightened as his children gasped at the outed relationship. “Thank you.”

After noting that Jemma’s cold expression had not softened, Radcliffe motioned outside. “Well, I better go. Congratulations again, you have a beautiful family,” he scurried off before he could hear his grandchildren’s protests.

“What. The. Hell.” Matthew gaped in Radcliffe’s direction. “Just. Happened?”

Jemma tried to change the subject. “Who ready for the fanciest dinner you’ve ever had in your entire life?”

“Dad…” Marie tried to read the emotions on Fitz’s expressive face, but soon found she couldn’t. “You never said anything about…”

“Yeah…” Fitz wrapped one arm around his daughter shoulders. “Some things I just don’t like to talk about. I’m sorry I never said anything about him. Perhaps I should have, sweetie.” He kissed his daughter’s hair again. “I am starving though. That fancy dinner your mother promised is sounding pretty good right about now. What do you say?”


	4. Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little did Fitz or Jemma know, the calls that mattered weren’t to the Academy Admissions department or the S.H.I.E.L.D. director, but rather the ones they missed to each other

“I’m starving,” Fitz announced before Jemma could read the next question.

She glanced up from the article and flung her hands back from their resting place under her chin, and exclaimed, “Ugh, Fitz!”

“I think Milton should deliver food to us. Isn’t food delivery mandatory as part of this whole hostage situation?”

“Fitz,” Jemma warned him seriously. “Don’t belittle hostage situations. We’re in spy school, you do know there’s actually a chance we could end up as hostages—”

“It’s very unlikely as neither of us plan to spend much time in the field…Unless there is something you haven’t told me—”

“There’s nothing I haven’t told you—” The confession rolled off Jemma’s tongue. It didn’t seem like an actual confession until she saw Fitz’s face. He gaped at her, both with his eyes and with his mouth, and she couldn’t help sucking in her next breath.

“Good,” he stated.

“Good,” she echoed. Another beat passed. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“No,” Fitz’s response came out so quickly, it ended before she had finished speaking. He swallowed and somehow found a joke to break the tension. “And if there is, I’m sure it’ll come out within the course of the evening.”

“Ha. Funny,” Jemma retorted without a fake smile. “I meant something work related. Like, changing departments or something.”

“Simmons. I just said ‘neither of us,’ as in neither you or me—”

She raised her flat palms in innocence. “Hey, I’m just clarifying here.”

“Well, don’t,” he snapped.

She winced at his harshness, not remembering the last time he’d snapped at her (…at least, not in an emotional way. Any snapping over science experiments weirdly didn’t count). “Wow,” she started, “You weren’t kidding when you said you were hungry.” She let her observation sit between them, knowing it was the deepest she could venture into emotional territory unprompted. When he still didn’t respond, Jemma sighed and offered. “Although, I don’t know how you could possibly be hungry. We were just settling back into the lab from lunch when Milton kidnapped us.”

“This,” Fitz pointed to his scrunched up face, “Has nothing to do with food.”

“Ok,” she crossed her arms and fell back against the chair. “Clearly.”

He leaned further over the desk, “You really don’t know why I’m upset?”

“No. I don’t.” Jemma answered shortly. “And we really don’t have time for this. We have thirty-four more questions to go through—”

Fitz started to shake his head while she spoke and continued after she finished. “Simmons, we just established we’d never abandoned each other. And, since when do we have to clarify anything with each other?”

“What?”

Although he refused to repeat his question, he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, making his desire for an answer obvious. Jemma, on the other hand, pinched her brows together, wrinkling her forehead in confusion.

“So…you don’t want me to ask for clarification from you—”

“No—”

“Ever—?”

“No, that’s not what I said or meant—” Fitz stated strongly.

Jemma matched his force. “What did you mean then?”

Once again, meaningful tension filled the air between them. Fitz blinked until he managed to tear his gaze away, while Jemma continued to stare at him.

“Forget it,” he rebuked.

“No…Fitz, I’m pretty sure you have to spit it out now…”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about—”

“What is—?”

He sighed. “All I’m saying is, we both know how the other feels about going into the field. Talking about it just makes things unnecessarily complicated—not to mention unnecessarily awkward.” Her stare intensified as he spoke and he wasn’t sure if the heat he in his cheeks was due to her sending laser beams through her eyes, or his natural response to her glare. “Can you ask the next question now?”

“Yeah,” she finally blinked. “Sure.”

“Ok,” he said and slid the article her way so she didn’t have to move from her slumped position.

She took it and read, “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

The non-sequitur forced the gears to shift in his head. Grateful to have something new to think about, Fitz noted tension leave his body. “Sure. Sometimes.”

Jemma, also realizing her gratitude for the fresh start, smoothed the creases on her face, letting color shine through at her amusement. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “My Mum suggested I do it for important phone calls—or emails—growing up, and I guess I never got out of the habit. It’s helpful. Sometimes.”

“Huh,” Jemma shifted in her seat, “Interesting.”

He crossed his arms. “I can’t tell if you’re judging me or not.”

“What?” she gaped at him for a moment and then retreated. “I would never judge you.”

“Huh,” he pulled the article back dramatically, “Ok.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you,” he responded quickly, hoping to put out another fire before it started. “Your turn.” He found a sing-song tone to repeat the question with, “Do you ever rehearse what you are going to say when making phone calls? Why?”

“No.” Jemma answered with confidence, “Never.”

“Never?” Fitz repeated, impressed. “Not even for like—your phone interview with the Academy or when S.H.I.E.L.D. calls for your job placement in the future?”

“I prepare the points I need to mention, but I’ve never rehearsed what I’m going to say.”

“Huh,” Fitz digested the information the same way Jemma did moments before. “Ok.”

“You think I should?” Jemma surprised herself with how much she craved his answer.

“No,” he responded thoughtfully. “I think you should do what works for you.”

“And I think you should do what works for you.”

* * *

 

 The world no longer worked.

Not the connection to Jemma’s cell phone, nor the research probes inside the monolith containment. The whole world broke the moment Fitz saw the footage of Jemma being swept up into that damn rock.

He tried calling her a thousand times, often putting his ear against the containment glass in search of a faint ring. No hint of it ever came.

Over the hours, days, and months that Jemma was away, the frequency of Fitz’s calls to her slowly diminished. He paused every time he scrolled over her name in his phone contacts, unable to pass it by or look at it without his heart pinching.

Looking back, Fitz realized he could sort his phone calls to Jemma during that time into two categories: the calls he waited desperately for her to answer and the calls which he knew rationally that she wouldn’t, but held onto hope that she answer anyway. Never, not once, did Fitz leave a message amounting to more than the gist of, “Jemma. Where are you? I’m worried about you. Call me back.”

Bobbi walked into the lab one day as Fitz flung his phone across a desk. Sighing, she thought she’d try a different approach and offered a new suggestion. “Have you ever thought of leaving a longer message for Jemma?”

He turned back to face her. Of course he considered it. He considered it every damn day. “What?”

“Sorry,” Bobbi knew she shouldn’t push Fitz emotionally right now, or he would break. He looked pretty broken as it was. “I didn’t mean to—suggest how to deal. But from experience, I can tell you there’s something different about going over words a thousand times in your head versus saying them aloud.”

“Is there a point?” _She’s not receiving any of my messages and won’t hear it anyway,_ he thought, but couldn’t say aloud. “Her phone is obviously not working.”

“No, but that’s the point,” Bobbi leaned against the opposite desk. “Say what you need to say to Jemma even if she can’t hear you. Get it out before it eats you alive.”

“I can’t do that,” Fitz surprised Bobbi with his speed of response.

“Why not?”

“Because I need to believe that she will hear her messages—one day—and if that’s true, I’m certainly not going to leave a loaded message for her to discover when she returns.”

“Okay, but Fitz,” Bobbi shifted her weight off of her bad leg. “Do it for you. Say all the things you wish you’d said—all the things you want to say if Jemma showed up right now.”

“Bobbi…” Fitz warned. “Now’s not the time.”

She sighed. Using the edge of the desk to aid her as she planned her limped path back out of the lab, Bobbi left Fitz with one last thing to think about. “Do you even know everything you would want to say? Have you given yourself permission to think of it?”

Once the last of Bobbi disappeared down the hallway, Fitz let out the breath he was holding. He reached for the tossed phone across his desk and opened it to the beginning of his photo galley.

Not realizing how far back his photo galley went, shock reverberated through his body when he swiped to a picture of Jemma, unamused, leaning back, across the desk from him. Chills ran down his spine when he remembered the shirt she wore and the position she sat in: he took the picture that one time Milton had locked them up and forced them to answer questions. Memories flooded him.

_“I rehearsed for important phone calls—or emails—growing up, and I guess I never got out of the habit. It’s helpful. Sometimes.”_

_“Huh,” Jemma had responded, “Interesting.”_

_“I can’t tell if you’re judging me or not.”_

_“What?” she retreated in her chair. “I would never judge you.”_

_“Huh. Ok.”_

_“You don’t believe me?”_

_“I believe you. Your turn. Do you ever rehearse what you are going to say when making phone calls? Why?”_

_“No.” Jemma answered with confidence, “Never.”_

Would Jemma judge him now? As he could neither figure how or where to find her or have the confidence to just pick up the phone and wait until the rings rang out and left a message—one with actual substance, he wondered what Jemma would do in his situation, and kicked himself for not knowing the answer.

His mental kick ignited something within him. Within seconds the rings from Jemma’s phone blared out from the speaker.

“You’ve reached Dr. Jemma Simmons. I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

The beep blasted in Fitz’s ear.

“Jemma. Hi. I—um—I have so much to say, I don’t know where to start. I guess this is why I usually rehearse important phone calls. But I just—I’m leaving you a message just to say—I don’t know, all those things you know I have to say. I miss you and I love you and I can’t function without you. I’m doing everything I know of to find you and bring you home and I just….” His voice cracked with a cry. “I need you to know that. And I know you know that but I really need you to…I need you to be ok and I need you to be safe because I need you to come home to me because I can’t find my home without you—It’s just…nowhere…I don’t know where my home is if I don’t know where you are—”

“I’m sorry, your voicemail is too long for this voicemail box. Please hang up and try again.”

The iPhone shattered across the lab’s brick wall. Fitz’s bawls drowned out the smashing noise. He fell to the floor, his head banging against metal desk drawers as he leaned against it for support.

Cold, thick tears cooled his heated face. Not that he realized its temperature, though. All Fitz could feel was his chest cracking open in pain.


	5. What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, their perfect days and perfect dates will intersect. Until then, Jemma and Fitz will have to make do with the days and dates they do have with together.

_Skrrreeek…_

The piercing noise filled the science classroom, causing Fitz to wince at the horrible sound. Jemma, however, gloated in satisfaction while adjusting the dragged chair until she found its perfect position to put her legs up.

Once he recovered from the sound, he crossed his arms at her disruptive and—frankly—out of character behavior. “What are you doing?”

“You just told me to do what works for me.”

“And doing what works for you means building a recliner chair from uncomfortable, plastic school chairs,” he commented, unruffled.

“Right now it does,” she retorted, finishing raising her legs onto the second chair. “I’m going to see how it works and then go onto plan B if need be.”

“You always have a Plan B, Simmons.”

Jemma smirked. “You know me well,” she shifted her weight between the two chairs. “Although, I have to admit, right now, I do not have a Plan B. But—” Jemma scanned the classroom. “Depending on how long we’re in here, the counter space under the cabinets or the wide desk in front for the professor could always work as a flat surface for sleeping.”

“I’d rather sleep in a chair,” Fitz confessed.

“Ah!” She half-lifted her flat palms. “He can sleep sitting up! Yet another new thing I now know about you. Milton will be so pleased.”

“I think he’d be more pleased if we used those flat surfaces for something other than sleeping—”

Both sucked in their breaths and froze. Heat rushed into their cheeks and colored them. While Fitz’s mind couldn’t recover from his panic, paralyzed in mortification, Jemma searched through her brain, desperate to find a response that would both defuse the tension and change the subject.

“Well—uh, the whole purpose of this is to prove Milton wrong,” her words mumbled together thanks to her rushed response. “And we are winners, right?”

“Winners,” he managed to repeat despite his brain freeze. “Yeah…”

“In fact,” she sat up straighter, forcing her ankles to slide from the second chair’s back. “There hasn’t been one thing we’ve done together,” she emphasized their partnership, “that we haven’t won.”

“Well,” still unable to look at her, Fitz found his favorite thinking spot on the ceiling to stare at again. “There was that one time we lost to Andrew Cho and Karen Stein at Axis and Allies—”

Jemma spoke before he could sound the last syllable. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” flew from his mouth.

“We swore we would never, ever, speak of that day again.”

He cringed. “I know! I’m sorry!”

After giving him her best disapproving expression, she slouched in the two plastic chairs, letting her neck uncomfortably curve along a top edge while her feet pushed against the second chair. “This is the first promise you’ve ever broken with me.”

“It won’t happen again,” he placed a hand on his heart. “I promise.”

She watched him cover his heart with such sincerity, she didn’t know whether her overly dramatic act of hurt feelings should continue. She swallowed, deciding to keep her slouched position but not to belabor the subject further. “Fine.”

Once more, silence fell between them and the wall clock resumed its role of rudely pointing out how many seconds they spent not knowing what to say to each other.

While Jemma stared at the cabinets across the room, he took a moment to make himself comfortable with looking at her again after his gaff. She still rested her neck against the hard, plastic, top-curve of the school chair—her long hair gracefully falling down the back of it and dangling in mid air. She crossed her arms and bent her knees, capturing the picture perfect definition of a person who was bored.

“Is your chair invention comfortable?”

“Not really.”

“Ok, ‘cause I was going to try it if it was.”

“Fitz,” she rolled her head towards him along the chair’s edge. Their eyes met and her non-intimidating posture pulled him closer to her, clearing his head of any momentarily regrets. “Read the next question.”

“Ok.” With one finger, he spun the article towards him to read, “‘Question Four: What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?’ Oh,” Fitz leaned back, content with the answer that came to him in two seconds. “Another easy one.”

Jemma raised a pointed finger at him. “We can’t say ‘science’ or ‘in a lab.’”

“Why not?”

“Because it takes the fun out of it.”

“Yes, because clearly, we are having—So. Much. Fun.”

“Ugh, Fitz!” Jemma kicked the second chair ten feet away from her, filling the room its piercing Skrrreeek sound again. “Can you try to pretend that being locked in a room with me isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”   
  
“Says the one who dramatically built herself the world’s most uncomfortable couch and flaunted her long body across it—”

“‘Flaunted my long body?’” Jemma scrutinized him. “What planet are you on? I thought we were passed the sexual innuendos.”

Refusing to acknowledge that particular subject a second time, Fitz repeated, “Question Four: What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?”

Instead of answering, she took the chance to clarify. “Being locked in a room with you isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Great,” he slapped the desk with his flat palms. “Now, are you going to answer the official question or the implied one of what is actually the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“Camping,” Jemma answered over his rant.

“Camping?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Fine.” His fingers tapped the desk in a looping pattern. “Not sure if that’s your answer to the your perfect day or the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, but hey—whatever.”

“My perfect day not spent in a lab would be camping in England with my family.” Jemma explained. “The woods are a biologist’s dream—all the natural materials and specimens to examine—it’s a lot to take in and study if I spent my time doing that. Then, of course, I also enjoy the smell of campfires and the peace it brings—just sitting there under the stars and letting it warm your face after a long day of hiking.”

Fitz’s eyes widened in comprehension, “I never knew you liked camping.”

She nodded, “Hm-mm. Ever since I was a girl.”

“Huh.” He thought quickly. “Then why are you afraid of going into the the field?”

“I am not afraid of going into the field—”

“Yes.” He sniggered. “You are—”

“I am not. And besides, going into to field and going camping are two different things—”

“Oh! Really?”

“Fitz,” her unamused gaze drifted to the article. “Answer the question.”

“Fine. Uh…” He thought for a moment, finding the same place on the ceiling. “If I couldn’t spend the perfect day in the lab, I’d spend it watching Doctor Who and playing board games—with lots of snacks of course—and then going to watch a meteor shower with the telescope I made myself.”

“What?” Jemma retorted, surprised at his perfect day description. “No monkey?”

“The monkey would be with me, watching Doctor Who, playing board games, and star gazing, of course.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Of course.”

The wall clocked ticked one second and then another as Jemma recalled the last day she spend with Fitz not doing lab work. “Fitz?”

“Yeah?”

“Your description of a perfect day spent not in a lab,” she paused, unable to blink as she studied him across the desk from her. “That’s exactly how we spend the day after finals last semester…”

No blush heated Fitz’s cheeks now. Instead, he tilted his head at her. A warm smile added a twinkle to his sapphire eyes. “Yeah.”

* * *

“You’d be so proud of me, Fitz.” Jemma recorded her fifteenth message to him on the foreign planet. I killed the monster plant. Then I made a fire, cooked him and ate him, and then I burped really loud. Wish you could have been here…Actually, no I don.’t I wouldn’t wish that on anyone…Everyone always said we could read each other’s minds, Fitz. So I really need you to read mine right now. I’m alive. But I’m terribly alone and afraid, so I really need you to come and get me, ‘kay? I know you won’t give up, so I won’t either.”

The flames from the burning fire flickered in Jemma’s eyes. Blinking passed them, she turned off her phone, but still wondered what it would be like if Fitz sat across from her, eating the same food, with a reassuring smile on his face.

In that moment, she didn’t feel alone or afraid. The fire warmed her and the food comforted her, but she took no note of that. Aching pain pinched her heart when she realized the next meal she had planned on eating was on their date…in whatever nice restaurant he’d picked out, a candle or flower between them.

“This is such a nice restaurant, Fitz,” she said aloud to no one. “You’re so thoughtful combining two of my favorite things: stargazing and campfires.”

_I hope you still find it peaceful._

“Yes,” taking a moment to gaze at the stars above her, she allowed them, for once, to fill her with wonder. “Right now I do”

_Good, you deserve the best, Jemma._

Heat warmed her cheeks and she questioned if its source was the fire or her creeping blush. “We both deserve the best, Fitz. You and me, together, after everything we should be able to be happy together.”

_We will be happy together, I promise. You just have to wait a little longer._

“I don’t want to wait any longer.”

She swore she could hear Fitz chuckle. _You never were good at waiting._

“Excuse me. I’m very patient when I need to be.”   
  
_I’ve never seen you be patient in the nine years we’ve known each other._

“Huh,” Jemma took a bite of the monster plant. “Then you clearly weren’t paying attention.”

_You’re right, honey, my mistake._

“Honey?” She raised her brow. “We’re two minutes into our first date and we’ve already reached the ‘honey’ stage?”

_Don’t kid yourself, Jemma. We’ve been an old married couple since year three at least._

“More like month three or week three or hour three or minute three.”

_Which one do you think it was?_

“I don’t know. That’s something I should probably know, right, Fitz? Which one do you think it was?”

_Second three._

“Of course!” Jemma scoffed and shook her head. “Always the romantic. How did I not see it before? Fitzsimmons: the platonic married couple.”

_Oh! We weren’t platonic to some people._

“Really? Who?”

_Milton totally thought we were sleeping together._

“He. Did. Not.”

_Yes. He. Did. I promise you._

“We’d have great sex. You and I. Our body types are similar, not to mention our long history, and our minds and emotional connection.”

_No argument here._

“So…when I get home, you wouldn’t mind if we skipped the date and went right to the sex?”

_Maybe we can find a flat surface that isn’t meant for sleeping to do it on._

“Wow…” Jemma pulled herself out of her imaginary date. “Terribly alone, starving, and dehydrated people sure reach the horny stage a lot faster than I’m used to.”


	6. When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are people who sing to make a moment special. And then there are people who wait for a special moment to sing...

Fitz’s idea of a perfect day included some of Jemma’s absolute favorite activities. When she combined that with his implication of how much of a role she played into his perfect day and the realization that he could confess these things without so much as blush made her sink back into her chair with regret; as if she should have known that he didn’t simply do whatever she wanted to do in hopes of avoiding a bickering match but because his favorite things actually did align perfectly with her own.

“Oh,” slipped through her lips. She started to fiddle with her jacket’s zipper, sliding it up and down, and up again before she found a longer response. “I had no idea.”

“No idea?” Fitz clarified. “I don’t believe you.”

“Uh…Excuse me?”

“You knew that day was pretty perfect. I don’t have to ask you to know that we had a great day—”

Jemma resisted the urge to sit back up and add force behind her retort. “The difference between a great, fun day where we blow off steam after finals and having the perfect day is vast.”

“Why?

“I don’t know,” she confessed, her gaze suddenly unable to stay on a fixed spot. “Because—because I wasn’t trying to make it the perfect day—I was just trying to blow of steam.”

Fitz chuckled to himself. Amused.

Further confused at his amusement, her fingers curled around the chair’s seat. “What?”

“That’s the point, Simmons…” his voice was soft, non-judgmental. It surprised her whenever she sensed that acceptance tone—both in his voice and in his eyes. Always the engineer, she knew he held everyone to a higher standard. She also knew part of the reason they worked well together attributed to their shared expectation for high standards. “Perfect days aren’t meant to be planned they just sort of happen.”

“Right,” she nodded. “They just sort of happen…”

“As in, your control-freak tendency puts a wrench in the possibilities of experiencing the magic of the moment.”

Jemma sat up then, squinting her eyes at him. “‘The magic of the moment’? Who are you and what have you done with Leo Fitz?”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“And who are you calling a control-freak?”

“Uh.” He made it clear he was stating the obvious. “You.”

“Huh. Talking of magic and calling me the control freak. Fitz is losing his mind” she stood up and begun searching for something. “Clearly, you don’t do well in detainment—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Aha!” She leapt up in place, the length of her arm pointing to the equipment box on the classroom counter. Huge steps followed in its direction and within seconds she removed the box from the counter and spun around to a student desk. “Now, what do we have here? It’s Fitz’s special equipment box,” she commented, undoing the latch to open it.

Fitz slammed his palm on its top before she could. “You know you can’t touch that.”

“Ugh, Fitz,” A taunting smile added to Jemma’s display of entertainment. “You need to get over your aversions to sexual innuendos. I didn’t mean that kind of special equipment box.”

Fitz kept a hand on the box’s lid. “Simmons—”

“See, this right here,” she released her grip on the latch and pointed to his hand on the lid. “This is why you’re a control freak.”

“Oh-oh!” As if a stove burner suddenly turned on, his hand flew from the lid. “My insistence on keeping my equipment in an orderly fashion is nothing compared to your insistence on planning out every single moment, making sure there’s no emotional or academic surprises.”

“That’s not true at all!”

“No?” Fitz lunged for Jemma’s planner, grabbing it before she could take it from him. “So, you’re telling me if I open this I am not going to see every second of every day planned out?”

Her arm dropped. Her shoulders fell. Jemma’s eyes switched back and forth between her planner and Fitz’s equipment box.

“Ok…” When she finally caved, it was slow and hesitant. “Fine. What if we agreed we’re both control freaks in our own special way? Would that work for you?”

Fitz now looked from the tool box to the planner. “Fine,” he dropped the planner on the desk. “If you admit—in the absence of camping—our definitions of a perfect day are basically the same and you just spent a whole five minutes trying to distract yourself from that fact.”

“You—you—” Jemma stumbled over her words as they stood across from each other, starring the other down. Pounding her fist on the desk was all she could do to pull herself from his challenging stare. “You’ve completely missed the point.”

“Missed the point?” He repeated, incredulous.

“Yes.” She turned from him, her fingers on the desk inching towards the abandoned article. “The point is we have, yet again, gotten off track. Which I have to admit,” her free hand gestured between them. “Is so unlike both of us—”

“You know,” Fitz glared at her backside. “I’m pretty sure there’s a reason this experiment and these questions are meant for strangers—”

“Question Five.” Jemma raised her voice to drown him out. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

The room fell silent for a moment. The wall clock ticked three seconds before Fitz spoke over it. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

“It’s a personal one,” Jemma turned around. Their eyes met. “To some people.”

“Well, not to us…” he boasted, raising his arm for a high-five. As Jemma watched its movement, it became clear his high five wouldn’t be paid off. “…We don’t sing…” His voice faded in time with his arm lowering.

Sighing, she admitted. “So…I can’t lie about this one—”

“That suggests you’ve been lying about other ones.”

“No, no.” She insisted, running a hand through her hair to do something with her unease. “It’s just the last person I sung with was Milton...”

Fitz plummeted into a chair. “Right…”

Her head shook, trying to deflect Milton’s significance. “We sung the elements song together as a joke.”

“A joke?” He picked up Jemma’s pen next to her planner and spun it on the desk.

Noting his disengagement, Jemma covered the pen with her palm, waiting to speak until it completely stilled. “Fitz. Milton momentarily forgot one of the elements and I starting singing the song to him to poke fun at him and he quickly chimed in. Ok?”

Fitz perked up. “Which element?”

“It doesn’t matter, Fitz—”

“Which element?” He insisted, deepening his voice.

“I don’t remember, Fitz—”

“Ugh, what an idiot. He forgot an element?” His disbelief took over his expression. “An element? Your ex-boyfriend? Our kidnapper? He forgot an element and we’re letting him detain us?”

“‘Letting him’ might be—”

“Totally appropriate, Simmons. We can outsmart him. What are we still doing here?”

“The last time—” Jemma spoke over him. “I sung to myself was when I went jogging yesterday and sang along to ‘Let’s Get It Started’ by The Black Eye Peas.”

“The Black Eye Peas? Seriously?”

She stepped back and tucked her chin at him. “Don’t judge my workout music!”

Fitz raised flat palms in innocence. “I didn’t even know you jogged.”

“Ugh, Fitz!” She slouched in the chair opposite him. “There’s a reason you noticed my body…”

“Aha!” He pointed at her. “So you do admit it! You were flaunting your body!”

“No, I wasn’t. That’s not what I—” Jemma covered her face for a moment, either to hide her embarrassment or frustration. “When did you last sing to yourself, Fitz? Or to someone else?”

“I don’t sing to myself—”

“What a shame,” she commented before he could finish the last syllable of ‘myself.’ “You truly are missing out on life’s more joyful things.”

“I doubt it.” Fitz responded confidently. “And I’d like to ask that a ‘No Judgement’ rule be put in place—”

She ignored his request. “The last time I remember you singing to someone was ‘Happy Birthday’ at your Mum’s birthday party over winter break. Have you sung since then?”

“No,” he rushed to confirm.

Jemma’s sarcasm was evident in her sing-song tone. “Great.”

“Great.” Fitz repeated. “Now—can we get back to this whole Milton element thing?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You just asked for a no judgement rule—”

“Yeah, for you and me! Not for Milton.”

“Fitz…” Jemma warned.

“Come on,” he begged. “Please?”

* * *

“Come on,” Fitz begged his wife, trudging up the stairs to their bedroom. “Please pick another song.”

Sitting cross-legged on their bed, Jemma glanced up from reading a parenting magazine on her tablet. “You realize that’s the first thing you’ve said to me all afternoon other than ‘Twins! We’re having twins!’”

“I did not say it in that high of a tone.”

“No, of course not,” she nodded in agreement to placate him. “You said in your deep, manly voice.”

Other than sighing and dropping his shoulders, Fitz did nothing to acknowledge her mockery. “Can you please pick another song? I cannot have a serious conversation to The Black Eye Peas’ ‘Let’s Get It Started.’”

“Oh, ok, sure.” She sniggered and dragged the volume to mute on the tablet’s screen. “Serious conversation.”

Now that he could hear himself think, he surprised himself when he the first clear thought he had didn’t have anything to do with the topic that preoccupied him all afternoon. “Do realize how old that song is?”

“Do I look like I care?” She defended her song choice. “It’s my—”

“It’s your jogging playlist. You’ve had it since the Academy. Instead of making new playlists you just add songs to the playlists you already have.”

“My husband knows me well,” pride filled her voice.

“Husband,” he started pacing next to the bed. “Boyfriend, best friend, partner—who better to have twins with.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she bite her lip to hide her smile, determined not to give in to his panic. “I can’t wait to tell Daisy. She’s going to freak!”

Fitz stopped pacing in front of her. “Daisy!?!”

“Yeah,” her smile sneaked through. “She always wanted us to have twins.”

 “You’re thinking about Daisy right now?” He pressed his palms together and placed them under his chin. “Jemma, honey, love of my life, can’t you see that I am the one freaking out right now?”

Scanning over him, her smile only grew. She tried refocusing on her tablet to hide her amusement. “Yes. I can see that.”

“And…why aren’t you joining me?”

“In your freak out?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm…” She sipped a finger over the tablet to switch to the next page. “Because you’re doing enough freaking out for the both of us. Maybe I’ll freak out when you’re done and you can placate me, deal?”

“Jemma…” Fitz fell to the bed, turned the tablet over and reached for her hands. “Talk to me. How do you feel about this?”

Squeezing his hands, she leaned in for a kiss. He captured her lips with enthusiasm, repositioning himself to guide her down to a horizontal position. She went down with ease, intertwining their legs as she did so. Their kiss deepened and Jemma found her favorite spot to cradle his face—resting right on his jaw line while her fingers stroked his facial hair.

When they did come up for air, they refused to let go of each other. Fitz found the hem her shirt and pulled it up to her bra, spreading his fingers over the bare, pregnant stomach while Jemma peppered his face with kisses. “That’s how I feel about our twins.”

Redirecting his attention to her gaze when she spoke, his smile grew when he looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sealing her confirmation off with a quick kiss, she then added. “I think it’s pretty perfect, actually.”

Fitz detangled their limbs and laid beside next her, leaning on a flat palm supported by his elbow. “You do?”

“Well, yeah,” she turned to mirror his position. “No one in the world is better suited to raise twins than a psychically linked couple like ourselves—and the the fact that it’s a girl and a boy—Ah! It’s magical, Fitz!”

Mesmerized by her glow, he ran his fingers through her shinny hair and then settled to stroke her cheek. “You’re happy.”

She reached up to cover his palm with her own. “Well, yeah.” Her brow furrowed, doubting for the first time her confidence that deep down, beneath his freak-out, his joy matched her own. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah…” he realized for the first time. At his admittance, elation washed over him. The new feeling overwhelmed him. “I’m really happy, Jemma, I’m—I can’t even describe it.”

“It’s ok,” she beamed at him. “You don’t have to. I see it.”

All he could do was kiss her. Once, twice, before an idea interrupted his concentration on her lips. “So,” Fitz pulled back just enough to speak. Eyelashes brushed across the other’s skin, and noses rested against each other. “If I offer to sing to the twins, will you forget my freak out?”

Not daring to move from their close position, Jemma whispered. “You don’t sing.”

“No, I don’t…but I want to sing to them.”

Jemma reluctantly pulled her forehead from his. She could now more fully see his excitement on his face. “You…Are you offering to sing to my pregnant stomach?”

“If you promise we will tell Daisy together—”

“Done.” The quick speed at which she gave up girl time said much about her buried desire to hear him sing.

She sat up and adjusted her position against the pillows while Fitz sat up straighter and lifted her fallen shirt up to her bra again. “I feel like my body’s on display.”

“Yes. You always did have a thing for flaunting your body in the horizontal position.”

“Ugh, Fitz!”

“Just teasing. You’re stunning.”

“It’s the pregnancy.”

“No.” He looked directly into her eyes, assuring her, “It’s you.”

“Huh-uh. Thanks. Are you going to sing to me now?”

“No—I’m going to sing to the twins.”

“Ah. Right.” She went along with him, teasing, “Would you like me to cover my ears?”

He didn’t indulge her with an answer. Instead, he reached out to the bump, spread his fingers over it, and started to sing the elements song:

 _"There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium,_  
_And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium,_  
_And nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium,_  
_And iron, americium, ruthenium, uranium,"_

 Jemma’s burst of laughter filled the entire Scottish cottage. It was infectious. By the second stanza, Fitz reached for a washable marker on his on his bedside and uncapped it, preparing to draw his favorite elements signs onto her stomach.

“What are you doing?”

Fitz wiggled his eyebrows at her. “I’m making sure our twins have the option of becoming scientists.”


	7. If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Fitz refuses to let go of the infamous element that Milton forgot, the reveal crosses personal boundaries...And when the 90-year-old Fitz gives away his nobel-prize winning technology, the decision will have drastic (but opposite) effects on different family members.

“Which element did Milton forget?” Fitz repeated his question with a sense of urgency.

“Ugh, Fitz!” Jemma ran her fingers through her long hair before slumping down across the desk. “Let it go!”

“Hm-mm,” he hummed victoriously. “There’s no way I’m letting it go. I am going to keep pestering you about it until you tell me.”

“Ugh!” Jemma dropped her head to her extended arm across the desk. “Why do you insist on adding to my torture?”

“I don’t,” he promised. “You can free yourself of this particular torture by just telling me which element he forgot.”

While her body didn’t move (she somehow looked comfortable in her slumped position), her gaze darted up to Fitz.

“I honestly don’t understand why you won’t just tell me,” a strange mixture of amusement and annoyance filled his voice. “It’s not like he can hear us.”

“He can see us, though.”

His forehead crinkled in bewilderment. A heavy weight of sarcasm pervaded his voice when he offered, “’Cause clearly he’ll know what we’re talking about by a video feed.”

“Fine!” Jemma lifted herself up and leaned back against the chair. “Fine. I’ll tell you. Clearly we are revealing all this afternoon anyways.”

“Yes. Just like strip poker.” He replied without thinking. Only when he heard her audible inhale did he realize the words that came from his mouth. “No-no, I meant poker!” Heat rushed to his cheeks, his stomach clenched into knots. “Like how you reveal your secret hand after a game of poker. A normal game of poker!”

Other than raising her eyebrows and biting the inside of her cheek, Jemma did nothing to acknowledge his humiliating comment.

“It was Curium, okay?” She couldn't quiet her loud voice. “Milton forgot the element Curium, making it very difficult to finish the last stanza of the song.”

“Curium?” Fitz sat straighter and crossed his arms.

“Yes.”

“The element named after your favorite scientist?”

“Yes.”

“The person who, given a choice of anyone in the world, dead or alive, you would want to have as a dinner guest…and he forgot her.”

“Yes.” Jemma pulled the article towards her, bent over it, and tucked a hair strand behind her ear. “Can we move on now…Please?”

Still dumbfound, Fitz blurted out the obvious question. “What the hell were you doing with this guy, Jemma?”

She huffed, causing hair ends resting on her shoulders to twirl. “It’s none of your business, Fitz.”

“None—none of my business?” He shook his head and gaped at her in disbelief. “You mean other than the fact that I’m your best friend and had to put up with him drooling around you all. The. Time. like a naive little puppy, or the fact that he’s the reason we’re trapped in this situation, or the fact that he clearly didn’t know you at all—”

Jemma’s head snapped up. “That’s enough, Fitz.”

“No,” he insisted passionately, taking her aback. He never commented on her personal choices, and his unwillingness to respect her request concerning her personal life seemed severely out of character. “He locked us both in here because of your breakup, you just said we’re revealing all this afternoon, and—if we skip over my humiliating comment—I have a right to know what you saw in that guy.”

 _You clearly never seen him naked,_  she thought to herself, still unable to look at him.

“Was it the fact that he worshipped you? Did you like the attention? Did he make you feel extra smart or something?”  
  
“Yup.” Jemma said shortly, putting on a brave, stern face when she finally did look up at him. “That was it. You nailed it.”

Fitz narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

They had reached an impasse. The silence between them now felt different than others this afternoon. Instead of the clocking ticking, they heard each other’s heart beats—heavy and quick inside their chests. Their shoulders heaved as they stared each other down, unable to give in, unable to move on.

While both determined and stubborn on the outside, on the inside they crumbled from confusion. For once, Jemma couldn’t provide him with the answer he wanted or needed to hear and Fitz couldn’t make any sense out of her choices she made.

Worse, their impasse stemmed from a personal disagreement, and neither of them had the experience—either within their own relationship, or any other—to know how to resolve their disagreement.

However, like most conflicts, time solves what people cannot. The ticks of the wall clock didn’t tell them how much time had passed, it was rather the gradual slowing of their heartbeats that return to a normal pace.

Somehow, Jemma could sense when Fitz’s heartbeats reached their normal rhythm. Whether it was thanks to his shoulders stilling from heaving and the fading fire in his eyes…or how she could somehow feel his heartbeats linked to her own slowing ones…she would never know. Whatever the reason, a trusted source inside of her told her when to speak.

“Okay. Next question,” she sat up. Glancing only once at the New York Times article for reference, she asked, “If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?”

For the first time in what seemed like hours, Fitz smirked. “These New York Times guys really ask the tough questions, don’t they?”

A genuine, sweet smile came from Jemma. “I wonder if we’re the smartest people ever to take this test.”

His smirk widened to a smile. “Probably.”

“I mean…Obviously, right?” Jemma played along, not knowing if she agreed with her statement or if finding their groove again meant enough to her to oversell her confidence. “And it doesn’t take a genius to know to choose the mind of a 30-year-old until you were 90 as the best option—the only option, really.”

“Obviously.” Fitz agreed. “Mind over body in every scenario…Unless…” He hesitated, pursing his lips and parting them again.

“Unless…” Jemma shook her head slightly, searching for his answer. “What?”

Fitz closed his eyes and took a deep breath, already knowing two things. One—that he would regret the next sentence he said, and two—his next sentence would speak the truth, no matter how much Jemma denied it. “A big part of the reason you were with Milton was for his body. You liked the way he looked with his shirt off.”

Her jaw dropped several inches. Between the heat from her cheeks and her heartbeat ringing in her ears, she was unaware of her open mouth. Not that it mattered though—because once she became of aware of it, Jemma had no idea how she would pick it back up again.

* * *

“Close your mouth, dear,” Fitz instructed his daughter Marie, who was currently playing poker against her own grownup daughter and her mother.

“You gave Matthew permission to do what?” After she spoke, Marie’s jaw returned to its gaping position.

The youngest woman snickered. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I have the coolest uncle on the planet.”

“Sarah,” Marie warned her daughter. “This is not a ‘cool uncle thing.’”

Folding up her card hand, Sarah slammed it on the table, bent one elbow, and leaned into its palm. “How many other people do you know drive an invisible flying car?

“None,” Marie raised her eyebrows. “That’s the point.”

“Except for Arthur Weasley,” Jemma chimed in, clearly taking her granddaughter’s side.

“Fictional characters don’t count,” Sarah insisted.

Fitz and Jemma gasped in unison. Jemma turned back to Fitz, who was resting in his favorite recliner chair with a thick, grey, knitted sweater around him to keep him warm.

“How dare you, young lady—” Fitz started.

“Arthur Weasley is a real character—person,” Jemma finished.

Marie’s head dropped to her arm on the table. “Oh, my, god.”

“Marie…” Quiet concern crept into Jemma’s voice. “How could you not teach the sacredness of Harry Potter to your daughter?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mum.” Marie sat up. “Maybe because its been over seventy years and I think some of its holiness has worn off.”

“Bite your tongue,” Jemma said with a twinkle in her eye.

Marie ignored her mother. “Can we please get back to why Dad gave his Nobel-Prize winning cloaking technology to Matthew and his stupid flying car invention?”

“Uncle Matthew’s flying car invention is not stupid,” Sarah corrected her mother. “It’s genius.”

Jemma raised her shoulder and nodded her chin. “You hear that, Marie? Your brother’s a genius.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ve been hearing that for my entire life.”

“Oh, honey,” it took effort for Fitz to lean forward in his recliner and reach out a hand to Marie’s shoulder. “We both know you got your Father’s smarts, so you can take your brother or your mother on any day of the week.”

Jemma put her cards down. “Ugh, Fitz!”

Fitz shrugged, delighted. “You know its’s true.”

While seeing any ninety-year-old couple bicker would be presumably cute for anyone, Marie had seen it enough times for it to lose its charm.

Her flat palm patted the table several times in frustration. “Matthew is a crazy risk taker who doesn’t know his own limits and giving him that technology just adds to the chances of him getting killed!”

No one seemed to take Marie’s concern seriously. Jemma picked up her cards again and played the next card, “The technology keeps him safe, Marie. You brother might be a crazy risk taker—but he definitely knows his own limits.”

“Or—maybe you two are losing your touch in your old age with the dangerous world in which we live,” Marie couldn’t help blurting out.

Fitz slowly leaned forward in his chair again. “Our bodies might be frail, sweetie, but I assure you our minds are sharp as tacks.”

Marie turned him with an unamused look on her face. “The fact that you are using such a old analogy questions that very statement,” she paused for meaning. “No one uses tacks anymore, Dad.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows at her mother’s unusual negativity. “Somebody’s not tapping into her psychic connection with her twin brother.”

Marie winced and turned to her daughter. “What?”

“No, I-I—” She looked to her grandparents for help, surprised when she found none. Surely the infamous psychic-link between her grandparents—that they obviously passed down to their twin children—was not a taboo subject. “I just meant you would know if your brother was in real trouble. Like you could feel it or something,” Sarah searched her mother’s unsteady gaze. “…Wouldn’t you?”

Sighing on a deep exhale, Marie felt tension leave her body at Sarah’s suggestion. She leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her brown, curly hair. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

But a part of her did know. Although she would never admit it, her parents did pass down their annoying psychically linked abilities to their twins. Some part of her knew that whatever crazy adventure her brother went on without her…whatever low came after the adrenaline high he sought, she knew her brother would be alright.


	8. Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scientific rules of physical attraction were debatable. Agreeing on how they were going to die was simple.

Jemma Simmons felt like she was going to die. Before this moment, before Fitz had spoken the unspeakable attraction she had for Milton, her scientific mind would have passionately rebuked any such claim that dying by mortification was possible. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Her cheeks felt on fire. Her lungs begged for more air. She closed her eyes in hopes it would help, but all it did was bring the image of Milton’s broad, swimmer’s chest, to the forefront of her mind.

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Jemma.” Fitz noted her blushed cheeks. “It’s basic human biology.”

Jemma’s eyes flew open. “You think I’m embarrassed because I’m subject to the laws of physical attraction?”

“No,” he responded calmly. “I think you’re embarrassed because I noted a large part of the reason you were with Milton was for his body and not his mind.”

“Okay.” Jemma sat up, the intense blush leaving her cheeks. “I’m not going to apologize or feel guilty for going out with a guy who has nice physical specimen—”

“No, no,” Fitz waved a hand between them. “Ugh-that’s not what I—”

“Nor am I going to be embarrassed because he has a few less IQ points than me or you. Okay? While sometimes he’s an insensitive ass, he still is quite brilliant.” She paused to exclaim, “Ugh! I can’t believe I’m defending him right now,” she ran her hands through her hair. “My point was that—not everyone in the world can be as brilliant as Leo Fitz.”

Completely unamused, Fitz shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “No, that wasn’t what I meant either.”

Flummoxed, she raised both arms over her sides. “Well, whatever did you mean, then?”

He swallowed, trying to find courage for his next blunt words. “I meant you were embarrassed because I noted it. Because our whole relationship is science-based and we always value our minds over our bodies—hence our physical specimens aren’t appreciated in our relationship.”

Jemma blinked at him once, twice, before saying. “You could not be more wrong.”

“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “Right…okay, Jemma.”

“No,” she insisted, leaning on the desk towards him. “That pisses me off. You’re wrong on both accounts.”

“What…?” his forehead creased. He crossed his arms. “Both accounts?”

“Yes,” she stated with confidence. “Number one,” she held up her index finger. “Our whole relationship is based in science. If that were true, we wouldn’t have movie nights or game nights or spend anytime outside the lab together—”

“Okay, Jem—”

“No, no. I’m not finished! If our whole relationship was about science, Milton wouldn’t have locked us in here in the first place. If all we had was science together, I would have found a way to escape this room, this experiment, a long time ago—”

“I misspoke. Ok—”

“Number two,” a second finger popped up. “I very much appreciate your physical specimen. You have steady hands and a well-built sturdy body that comes in use when we’re doing experiments. Not to mention that your blue eyes and curly hair are very nice to look at and I appreciate having someone nice to look at when I work—”

“Please stop.”

“No! Guess what, you still don’t get it, Fitz!” Jemma insisted. “Because you think you know me better than I know you! You think you can rightly call me out on why I was attracted to Milton and still think I don’t know the only reason you did that was because you feel insecure about your own body!” Jemma spoke so fast she had to stop for air. When she paused, she realized the shock in Fitz’s expression. “You really didn’t think I knew? Fitz, of course I knew.”

“I—I, uh, I—” What Fitz wanted to say, something about being sorry or being wrong or something…somehow got lost while her words flooded over her.

“Just because I appreciated Milton’s physical features doesn’t mean I didn’t notice that you’re a hot man yourself, not that I describe physical features that way, but if it works for you—Fine. And while we’re on the subject,” she had to pause again to take a breath. The she repeated his words, “‘Our physical specimens aren’t appreciated in our relationship.’ Really? How many sexual innuendos have you made about my body—just today?”

“You’re right,” Fitz admitted, mortified, knowing it was the only sure thing to shut her up. “Sorry.”

Slamming her palm on the article, she enunciated, “Thank. You.,” and dragged the paper across the desk to her. “Question seven,” she read, “Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?”

“By mortification of talking about our physical specimens for too long,” he spit out. “If…you know, that death by mortification was possible.”

She hadn’t had a chance to regroup. She hadn’t expected a quick, cheeky answer from him…not after the subject matter they had finished discussing. She hadn’t expected his reply to be so similar to the thought she that occurred to her earlier. She hadn’t expected it to take this long to recover her breath again after nonstop ranting at him…did she really just spend all that time ranting at him on and on, not letting him get a word in?

“Simmons?” Fitz moved from side to side, hoping to catch her attention. “Do you accept my answer?”

“Hmm?” She finally snapped back into the present, his cheeky answer replaying in her head. “No. You have to answer the question with a way to die that is actually possible.”

“Okay, fine.” Fitz conceded, knowing his previous answered wouldn’t satisfy her anyways. “While I think about it, you answer the question.”

“Umm…uh…” Jemma had to think about it too. All that came to mind, though, was their recent promise never to abandoned each other. She couldn’t figure out why the question provoked their promise, but after realizing its repeat in her head, she figured her true answer must have something to do with that. “Well, if I am going to die in the field, I’m going to bet it will be because you weren’t beside me.”

Fitz raised his eyebrows. “Because I wasn’t beside you?”

“Yes.” She confirmed. “Like I said I find your body very useful.”

He squinted his eyes at her, incredulous. “Are you saying this to make me feel better—because I think your rant already did—”

“And,” Jemma started talking quickly again, “If I don’t die in the field, it’ll probably be when you’re beside me,” her breath caught at her own confession.

He gaped at her, “What?”

Jemma did a little shake of her head. “I don’t know—whatever—just—it’s your turn.”

Fitz didn’t realize his own short breaths; didn’t realize some major functions in his brains had stopped working, if only for a moment. As if drunk, or high from her confession, he offered, “Can I just copy your answer and then we move on?”

“Yup. Yeah,” her hand went to the base of her neck as she shifted uncomfortably. “That’s sounds like a good plan to me.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

With nothing left to say, small bouts of uncomfortable laughter filled the room.

* * *

Fitz’s joyful laughter filled the room. After sixty years together, the fact that his joy still had the power to lighten Jemma’s sullen mood surprised her—especially given the circumstances. “The cut from the tree branch barely scratch the surface.”

She rose from the bed, absentmindedly diddle–daddling with a pair of his socks she had just folded. “It’s not funny, Fitz. One scratch on you is too many. I don’t want you flying in that car again.”

His gaze followed her as she walked around their bedroom. While she started off on a clear path towards a dresser, she now paced in a crisscross pattern, ringing the socks in her hand. “Nothing was going to happen to me, Jemma.”

“Well, of course nothing was going to happen to you. Nothing is allowed to happen to you without it also happening to me too. Fitz—you, you promised me that. You promised me multiple times that when it came time for you to die— ideally at peace, in our bed—I would be with you.”

“Die?” Fitz repeated, his forehead creasing in confusion. “You weren’t really worried about me dying, were you? Nothing like that was going to happen. Matthew was beside me the whole time.”

Jemma stopped pacing then, and turned to him. “I should have been beside you the whole damn time!”

Fitz smiled and lowered himself slowly into his favorite chair. He fiddled with his sweater, debating whether or not to call her out on the once infamous words between them. He couldn’t help himself, “You stealing my once audacious words from me?”

Jemma’s eyes narrowed at him and her shoulders dropped. “You-you’re talking about that fight we had on that plane over the-the—”

“Vaccine? Yes—”

She raised her voice, “Anti-serum!”

Fitz chuckled, his wide grin causing Jemma even more frustration. “I love you.”

“Hmm…” she stepped closer—close enough to toss the socks gently at him while still giving the impression she put force behind her throw. He played along, curling around the socks as they hit his stomach like a punch in his gut. “And I hate you.”

“Throw all the socks or insults at me you want, Jemma Simmons. I will still love you, always have, always will.”

An “Aw,” escaped her lips. She tilted her head to the side, content to just look at him for a moment. His grey hair was long enough now that it folded over into curls. She should cut his hair soon. Or—a brief glance down at her hands reminded her how unsteady they were now in her old age—maybe Marie or Sarah could do it. Closing the distance between them, she leaned in for a kiss once she settled on her favorite spot: his favorite chair’s wide armrest next to him. Once their lips parted, she hovered over his face. “If only you knew then. That day would have gone a lot differently.”

Instead of responding with a retort like she expected, he grew quiet. She felt his hands rub up and down her arms, smoothing out the wrinkled skin. After enough time had passed, she knew there was a reason behind her silence. With each passing moment she grew more and more bothered that she couldn’t figure out what it was. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His eyelids flew up and their gazes collided. Jemma searched the blues of his eyes while he shook his head silently. A little sound escaped the back of his throat when he leaned in for another kiss.

Jemma met his lips and rested her arms around his neck, but she pulled back quickly. “Fitz…Tell me.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I knew,” he confessed.

She pulled back further. “What?”

Fitz shrugged. “I knew that day that I was in love with you. Okay? That was the first day I knew.”

Jemma released him and covered her face with her hands. When he reached for her, she stood from the chair. With her back towards him, all he could see was her running her hands over her forehead and through her grey hair.

“Can we not make this a thing?” He asked, despite his knowledge to the contrary. Reeling in the silence, he searched for something, anything to lighten the mood or change the subject. He spoke the first thing that came to mind, hoping it would make them both feel better. “Besides—just because that was the first day I knew, doesn’t mean it was the first day I was in love with you. We fell in love with each other on the same day, at the same moment…so there’s no need to feel mad or guilty or—”

Jemma whipped around to him. “What are talking about?”

Fitz tilted his head. When she stared at him blankly, his gazed moved towards the article, framed, on their dresser: The 36 Questions that Lead to Love.

She followed the gaze. Once she realize where it had settled, she let out the breath she was holding, scoffed, and said, “Oh…” which was quickly followed with a shake of her head. “You know what…”

Amused, he found his laugh again, “You’re the one who gave to me for a birthday present last year.”

“I didn’t realize my doing so gave you permission to hold it against me—”

“I’m not, honey—” Fitz reached for Jemma, but she choose to sit on the bed across from him. “Please. I didn't mean to—I don’t want to ruin it. It’s so special.”   
She offered him a soft smile. A truce after his confession. “You could never ruin it. Nothing could ruin that day…Not even—what’s his name?”

Fitz’s face lit up, “Cabbage head?”

Jemma’s smile widened. “Ugh, Fitz!”

He leaned forward in his chair. “You really don’t remember his name?”

“No, I…” she searched her brain for the name, but none came. “I really don’t.”

“‘Hi-hi, I’m Mil-” he started the impression.

“Milton!” They finished together.

“That’s right!” Jemma exclaimed, “I remember it now.”

Fitz examined the comprehension on her face, not knowing it possible that someone who he thought meant a lot to Jemma at the time, could be completely forgotten now. He then wished he could have forgotten Milton a long time ago too…but then again, he looked back at the framed article, he would always be grateful for the minuscule significance Milton did have in their relationship.

Jemma noticed Fitz grow quiet in contemplation. She made her way over to his chair’s wide armrest and put an arm around his shoulders. “Remember two things for me?”

He perked up, cocking his head towards her. “Yeah?”

She stroked his cheek with her thumb, and searched his gaze. “One—that I did fall in love with you at the exact moment you fell in love with me. And two—that I plan to die at the exact moment you do.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. His flat palms made their way up her back and curved around her shoulders, giving her a soft push towards him, “Me too.” Her lips fell onto his and he held her tighter that usual.


	9. Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their confidence in their physical specimens...in their own attractiveness is not one of three things they have in common. Thankfully, Jemma has plans to change that.

Jemma hoped to cover up her uncomfortable laughter by clearing her throat. She straighter and pulled the article across the desk to read it, now growing accustom to the motion. “Question Eight,” she cleared her throat a second time. “Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Her eyelids flew up at Fitz across from her. All it took was one glance to echo his next words as he said them: “That’s not a question,” they said together.

Fitz tilted his head and shot her an unamused look.

Jemma sniggered, “What? I knew you were going to say that.”

“Uh-huh,” he leaned back against the back of his plastic, classroom-quality chair. “Must you be so smug about it?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Fitz,” she shot back. “Must you be so annoyed about it?”

“That you now can predict what I’m going to say?” He adjusted his position against the chair and crossed his arms. “A little bit.”

“Seriously, Fitz…” Jemma didn’t know why, but she found herself speaking softer. “We’ve been speaking in unison for months now…”

“Which goes to prove the stupidity of Question Eight—which is not really a question—this test is meant for strangers, and we—” he motioned between the two of them. “Are clearly not strangers.”

“Okay…so,” Jemma searched for a compromise. “We change it a little…We say ‘Name three things you and your partner have in common that you’ve learned during this—what are we calling it?—interview, test, thing-y.”

Returning to his crossed-arms position, Fitz raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Interview, test, thing-y?” He repeated.

Jemma caught the judgement in his voice and bent her elbows, raising her flat palms upward in a what-the-hell motion. “I thought we agreed upon a no judgement rule.”

Fitz scoffed and tried to hide his smile. “Sorry…I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘thing-y.’”

“Thing-y is not technically a word,” she corrected him, pursing her lips. “Just like Question Eight is not technically a question.”

“And smartass-Simmons has returned,” he observed lightly. His sarcasm came through as he added, “Oh, how I have missed her.” Both their smiles disappeared when their gazes locked together. He echoed her soft tone as he continued. “Can I use our obsessions for technicalities as one of the things we have in common?”

Twinkles formed in her eyes as she shook her head slowly. “No…”

“Why not?” Fitz challenged her gently. “Why do we keep following your rules and not mine?”

“The ‘no judgement’ rule was your rule, Fitz, and you’re the one who just broke it.”

He ignored her. Tightening his jaw, his annoyance began to show. “My questions still stands.”

Jemma took a deep breath, ran her hands through her hair, and leaned forward. “Because we both knew about our joint love for technicalities before today—”

“Even though we never spoke it out loud,” Fitz explained the rest to himself. Jemma nodded in agreement once he had finished. The rant in his head, further arguing how stupid this exercise-interview-test-thingy, faded as he continued to look at her. There was something about her soft eyes that asked him silently to just go with it, to stop protesting, stop trying to outsmart the test—and her—every chance he had. He felt something more in his most recent realization too…that as much as sharing their answers to these questions was sacred—for he also just realized they were, in fact, sacred—so were the answers they shared silently; and while speaking them aloud didn’t necessarily make them less sacred, it perhaps tainted them a little.

As Fitz came to terms with his recent realizations, Jemma watched him turn inward. She innately knew the pieces that were coming together in his mind. She felt calmer as acceptance washed over him—and therefore washed over her as well. While she knew the pieces that came together for both of them, she couldn’t name them herself. All she knew was something sacred had just passed between them, like they reached some sort of turning point, and they couldn’t go back even if she could name it.

Just like she knew they had passed some sort of turning point, Jemma also knew when she could speak again without disrupting their busy minds. “Okay. Three things I learned today that we both have in common.” When Fitz’s gaze snapped back to hers, she felt a deeper intensity in it. “One, we’re both, equally, totally done with, annoyed with, and pissed at Milton—”

“Cabbage head,” Fitz cracked half a smile.

Jemma mirrored his half smile. She felt heat in her cheeks and a sudden urge to lean closer to him, though she didn’t know why. When she did, Fitz leaned across the desk the same amount, to her surprise. “And our definition of a perfect day is exactly the same.”

Fitz creased his forehead “You said your perfect day was camping…I hate camping.”

“Well, I changed my mind and am admitting what you wanted me to admit twenty minutes ago,” she confessed. “The definition of my perfect day is now a day spent watching Doctor Who and playing board games, ending in a beautiful meteor shower.”

Fitz’s chest tightened. His heartbeat thudded through his body. He drunk in the sight of her: the slight curls in her long hair, the pink color in her cheeks, the curves of her body which he now somehow had her permission to notice. Longing infused his voice when he spoke, “Jemma—”

She blinked at him, exposing her blank and oblivious expression. “What?” She waited only a moment for him to answer. When he didn’t speak, she kept talking. “I’m allowed to change my mind—or, maybe, you described my perfect day and I just didn’t know it.” Fitz parted his lips to speak again, but she jumped over him before he had a chance. “And before we get all—I don’t know—whatever—” Jemma realized she couldn’t even put a name to their special connection, “Can we just say I changed my mind? Simple as that?”

“Simple as that,” Fitz repeated in his half-daze. “Better to just keep things simple,” he told himself rather than her.

“I wholeheartedly agree, Fitz,” A color of triumph broke through her oblivious expression. “Oh, and, uh, the third thing I learned we have in common today is that we’re planning to stick together through—you know, whatever.” Jemma focused on pulling her jacket sleeve over her thumb, finding it hard enough to repeat the odd feeling that neither of them planned to seperate from each other after graduation. Once her second sleeve covered her other thumb, Jemma insisted, “It’s your turn.”

“Right…” At her insistence, he blinked out of his mesmerized stare. A flippant comment came to him when he did; something about her already naming the all the things they learned about each other today or how stupid—again—the article’s questions were, but his side commentaries died on his tongue. Her sudden shyness made it hard to respond with a cheeky retort. “Okay, well, we learned that we both are control freaks in our own special way…”

She nodded along with him, interjecting a comment of, “This is true.” Though she still fiddle with her jacket, sinking further into her chair, she did roll the back of her head along its edge to look at him when she added, “Although we did pretty much know that about each other before, but we did confirm it today so I’ll let it slide.”

“Gee,” Fitz couldn’t help the retort. “Thanks, article referee.”

Daggers shot through her eyes in the remaining two seconds she looked at him. After that, she sighed, adjusted her neck’s position on the edge of the chair and became determined to stare at the ceiling for as long as possible.

“Fine,” he accepted her annoyance as proof that his gut instinct was right: her tolerance for his flippant comments had begun to max out. “The second thing I learned we have in common is that we wouldn’t mind being famous if we were to win the nobel prize together.”

He hoped the sentimental observation would returned some warmth in her, and it did. Her expression soften and color painted her cheeks, but still she said nothing, waiting for him to finish with his third commonality.

“And the third thing I learned we have in common today,” he then pointed at her, adding a quick aside, “You already knew this, of course, but what I learned is,” he took a deep breath, letting the words roll out on the exhale, “That our physical specimens are allowed to be, and in fact are, appreciated in our relationship by both parties.”

Still staring at the ceiling, Jemma took a moment to digest his words. She spoke slowly and softly as she repeated them, “Allowed to be?”

“No—I—” Fitz groaned, the last thing he wanted was to get into their physical specimen debate again. “That’s not what I—”

Finally, she turned to him. When he saw her expression, it was nothing like he expected: soft and tender, concerned and caring, curious and fascinated. “Fitz, did you really not know that before?”

“I—”

Jemma cut him off solely by the intensity of her stare. As she checked him out (and for the first time, Fitz was aware that she, indeed, checking him out), a wave of empathy for him crashed over her. “From now on, I want you to know, there’s nothing wrong with noting that I, or anyone else for that matter, is physically appealing. It’s a nice thing when a guy notices a girl is beautiful—or vice versa, for that matter—It’s doesn’t mean you value their mind any less.”

He took a deep breath and drunk her in again, forgetting to exhale. His voice sounded extra smooth as he said, “Yeah, no, I know.”

Creasing her forehead, she leaned in to examine him. “Do you?”

Too mesmerized by the woman in front of him to answer in the affirmative, Fitz rather answered with his revealing blue eyes that reflected her beauty. Freckles sprinkled over her nose and rosy cheeks. The salmon color of her shirt collar barely peaked out from her baby blue jacket, highlighting her neck’s curvature. The natural color of her lips matched her faint blush perfectly.

Once her rich brown eyes caught sight of his sapphire blue ones, she had her answer. Still, the knots tightened in his stomach when he started, “Hey, Simmons…”

She smiled briefly at him. It soon faded from her face, though, when she felt the knots forming in her own stomach. She bite her lip before saying, “Yeah?”

The knots in his stomach were going to devour him if he didn’t speak soon. Still, he couldn’t believe he was actually saying the words aloud. “I think you’re beautiful.”

* * *

“You’re beautiful,” Fitz broke away from Jemma’s lips to whisper. The sight of her naked body on top of him blocked out his view of the rest their room on the base—not that he was complaining. His hand made its way up her bare back to cup her cheek. He stroked it, preventing her from closing the distance between them. “When’s the last time I told you that?”

“Hmmm…” she leaned into his palm. She knew precisely the last time he had told her that; they were sitting across from each other in a an Academy classroom—but now was hardly the time to bring that day up. “It’s been a while.”

“Well, I think it all the time,” he confessed.

He felt her cheek warm in his palm. “You do?” She whispered.

“Hm-mm,” he nodded and released the pressure on her cheek just enough for her to lean in for a kiss. Fitz eagerly met her passion. His fingers inched from her cheek into her hair as he kissed her once, twice, before deepening their kiss. As their lips brushed against each other, Fitz’s other hand traced her curvature; the indent of her spine, the angle of her shoulder, the slight arc in her neck.

While she didn’t dare bring that day up, especially when there was literally nothing between them to mask any lingering emotions from that day, something swirling in her head about that day told her it was important to break their kiss to say, “You’re pretty hot yourself, Doctor.”

She watched the confused emotions play on his face when he heard the words. His forehead threatened to wrinkle in doubt and she smoothed it out with her thumb before it could. Making a mental note to remember to comment on his appearance a little more often than once every ten years, Jemma leaned down to kiss his forehead, lingering there longer than usual, wishing the touch of this kiss in particular could stay there forever.

“You’re just saying that because it’s our six-month anniversary,” he murmured, half-hoping she wouldn’t hear him.

Her head fell then. Coincidentally, as it did so, her forehead fell on top of his, making it seem romantic, but really she released it in frustration. He peered into her eyes, which were mere inches from him, and silently begging her to ignore him. She didn’t. Instead, she rolled to his side and pulled the top sheet over her.

Fitz turned on his side, “I’m sor—”

“Fitz, did you just tell me I was beautiful because it’s our anniversary?”

“Of course not—”

Her forehead creased. The veins in her neck protruded a little, and her voice cracked when she asked, “Then why did you assume I did?”

No answer came to him. His gaze couldn’t settle on a single spot. His fingers twitched, longing to reach out and touch her.

Jemma reached out to him instead. Her fingers brushed over his chest before her whole palm covered his heart. She felt it beating extraordinarily fast. “Fitz, do you believe I love you?”

A sharp, quick pain shot through his body at her question. “I know you do, Jemma…”

“Did we not just have the perfect anniversary together? Complete with board games, and Doctor Who, and star gazing?”

He cupped her cheek then, “Yes, we did.”

“And you love me, right?”

The sharp, quick pain returned, but felt his heart fill with happiness at the same time. “More than anything.”

“Mmm,” she extended her chin for a quick kiss. He tried to prolong it, but she wouldn’t let him. As he opened his eyes, he saw her innocent, beautiful face; with sparkles in her eyes which were hard to tell if they glistened with tears or pure joy. “Will you do something for me then?”

“Mmm,” Fitz added a little excitement to his echo. “Anything.”

Jemma nodded, more to herself than to Fitz, and slowly climbed back on top of him. He wrapped her arms around her lower back like she was something to be cherished, like the moment could be taken away from him at any moment. He didn’t kiss her lips, but rather each cheek, and then her forehead. She closed her eyes as he did so, soaking his touch. She waited until he finished to speak, “Promise me…the next time I compliment your appearance you won’t just believe me, you’ll know it to be true, just like you know I love you?”

Fitz’s breath caught. He took his time answering, stroking her bare arms. “I promise.”

A radiant smile broke on her face. Leaning down over him, she whispered, “Thank you,” before capturing his lips. The couple lost themselves in each other, loving the other in actions rather than words. While Jemma loved him in every spot she hadn’t yet, Fitz rather loved his favorite spots deeply; both wishing never to let go of the other.

And they didn’t. Hours later, drifting in and out of sleep, they held onto each other. With Fitz’s front to Jemma’s back, his arms wrapped around her body, while she clung to his forearms.

“Hey, Fitz,” she whispered into the early morning stillness.

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re beautiful,” she said.

And he knew it to be true.


	10. For what in your life do you feel most grateful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two stages to the loss of self-control. The poetic kind that describes either the inability to do something or desperate need to do something else which that person would be totally capable of controlling if not for the current stage of love they happen to be in. And then there's the stage that consumed a person rather than merely controlling their actions. No poetry existed in the second stage at all. Poetry would never dare to describe the feeling of such helplessness.

Jemma couldn’t breath. She couldn’t think, either. Her physical sensations took over, making impossible to think. Having feelings without the thoughts to process (and therefore control) through her emotions marked a whole new experience for Jemma.

_I think you’re beautiful._

Her shoulders heaved from lack of breath. Her stomach tighten further and further into knots. Her racing heartbeat echoed in thoughtless brain.

_I think you’re beautiful._

There are two stages to the loss of self-control. The poetic kind that describes either the inability to do something or desperate need to do something else which that person would be totally capable of controlling if not for the current stage of love they happen to be in. If Jemma had the ability to think in that moment, she would think that the first stage was invented so that writers and poets had a way to defend the foolishness of their characters’ supposedly lovesick actions. Jemma had no idea a second stage existed until she experienced it. The second stage consumed a person rather than merely controlling their actions. No poetry existed in the second stage at all. Poetry would never dare to describe the feeling of such helplessness. No words could describe really—because those who have experienced it lose any ability to think while it consumes them, and if one loses the ability to think during an experience…wouldn’t it, therefore, be impossible to describe it afterwards?

Air returned to her lungs when Fitz blinked. Some part of her lost in the color of his eyes, which weren’t just sapphire, but also had flakes of rich brown in them if one looked hard enough, Jemma didn’t notice they were even starring at each other.

His second blink had a odd familiarity to it—like it spoke directly to her in a way words never could. She realized, then, he knew better than herself as to why she wasn’t speaking. He accepted the silence, somehow enjoyed it…felt comfortable with it. He knew he had rendered her speechless without meaning to and her speechlessness somehow gave him a confidence he didn’t know he needed.

Fitz held his position, not daring to break the moment. He wasn’t frozen in place. Nor was he impatient to move. Instead, he found a peace, a second home as he watched Jemma’s thoughts rush back into her head.

 _I think you’re beautiful_.

Jemma finally registered the words and Fitz knew when she did as her eyelids drifted down to give her an escape inward. Why did those words consume her? People had told her she was beautiful before. Her mom and dad and her Matthew and random adults that knew her growing up complimented her beauty whenever she put on a dress for a special occasion. Hell, she even knew she was beautiful. She knew it. She knew it…so why did she literally lose the ability to think…much less speak when Fitz said the words to her?

“Stop thinking, Simmons.” Fitz’s whisper pervaded her rushing thoughts.

“Huh?” Jemma’s blurry eyesight sharpened. It honed it on Fitz’s upper body which sat straight in the plastic school chair. When he sat straight like that, his chest puffed out a little (she noticed for the first time) and her all-too-recent turned off brain jolted at its turned on. She wanted to tell him he was beautiful…she wanted to reach out and——“What?”

“You think,” Fitz leaned forward on the desk and slammed the pad of his index finger on its surface. “Way. Too. Much.” The finger beat down on the desk with each word for emphasis. “And not just right now—I mean all the time. While we’re both big fans of thinking, I would like to remind you that your over-firing brain effects me too…so it’d be great if you didn’t wear us both out.”

Not having time to embarrassed or skeptical, Jemma merely said what she wanted to say in that moment. “Say that again,” she asked him straightforwardly, for they had never verbally acknowledged their—frankly. mystical, seemingly supernatural, totally nonlogical, completely unscientific—connection before. The fact that his acknowledgement now existed between them gave her more satisfaction and validation than she ever thought she needed.

Fitz paused momentarily at her request and quickly swallowed. His index finger, still pointed firmly on the desk, raised to his forehead. “My brain gets worn out when,” the finger sharply changed directions, pointed at her, and landed on the matching spot on her forehead, “You think too much.”

Jemma couldn’t help gasping at his touch. Fire electrified her icy skin. Her breathe caught. Her stomach tied into knots. A heartbeat pounded in her brain. A heartbeat, which had an equal probability of belonging to Jemma or Fitz…and the fact that she honestly couldn’t tell whose heartbeat it belong to was the last thought she had before…she was helpless again.

Unable to control herself, Jemma reached both her hands up to Fitz’s single finger and covered it over, one palm on top of the other. Fitz gasped then. He couldn’t breathe either. He couldn’t release his stomach knots or think or speak or tell whose damn heartbeat he heard inside of his own head.

Slowly (still not knowing what she was doing), Jemma’s palms detached his finger from her forehead. As they pulled it back, the rest of Fitz’s fingers unexpectedly released from their fist and reached around Jemma’s palms until they settled on the backs of her hands. They held hands in midair, not wanting—not knowing how to let go. With his thumb, Fitz traced the bottom U of Jemma’s palm and she extended her fingers to his.

While she interlaced their fingers together, she pushed further into them; the forward motion leading her elbows from her sides to dangling over the desk. Fitz matched her force, adjusting his concentrated touch; gravitating his forearms further into her space. As he did so, their joint arms lowered to the desk. Colliding with the surface, Jemma’s elbow landed on something flimsy…something she had completely forgot about.

Keeping their fingers entwined, she peered down from his gaze to the article with questions they were supposed to be asking each other. Ever the rule follower, she skimmed over the questions until she found the first unanswered one. She read to herself and smiled.

“Hey, Fitz?” she whispered, unaware that she whispered purely to save the sacredness between them.

“Yeah?” He whispered back.

“I think we answered the next question.”

Fitz tore himself away from gazing at her to peer down at the article. Refusing to let go of Jemma, he read the question upside down:

Question Nine: For what in your life do you feel most grateful?

Fitz smiled then too. The mere existence of their mystical, seemingly supernatural, totally nonlogical, completely unscientific connection answered the dangling question for both Fitz and Jemma without them needing to verbally acknowledge it.

* * *

Their mystical, seemingly supernatural, totally nonlogical, completely unscientific connection answered the dangling question for Fitz and Jemma without them needing to verbally acknowledge it.

Matthew knew their answer too. Standing across from his parents in their cottage kitchen, he gapped from one parent to the other, realizing they had the same look of disapproval on their faces. “What. The. Hell. You can’t tell me I can’t invent my own flying car! You know I have the brains for it. This isn’t fair!”   
“Do you know the percentage of 17-year-old boys who say, ‘This is fair’ to their parents?” Jemma crooked a eyebrow knowingly at her son.

His shoulders fell with his un-amusement. “Uh…” He started, kicking himself for the whole second he spent wondering if his mother actually wanted him to do the calculations to find the exact percentage or not. “Less than the percentage of five-year-old boys who say it, but I’d still say most of them say it at least a couple times over the span of their entire 17th year.” He paused once he answered the question scientifically, satisfied that he did so. When he realized his parents were still unsatisfied, he returned to gaping at them. “What’s. Your. Point?”

“Our point is, Matthew,” Fitz stood from leaning on the kitchen counter next to his wife and approached the island where his son displayed the designs for his flying car. “Is that you are not like other 17-year-old boys and we expect you to behave as such. Given that you almost died with your last attempt at an invention, what makes you think we’d let you try something twice as dangerous?”

“I don’t understand how you, Dad, as an Nobel Prize winning engineer, could possibly ask me that question,” Matthew added teenage sass to his retort.

“Is that what this is about?” Jemma’s over-firing brain finally found a logical conclusion and Fitz sighed to himself when it stopped over-working. “You’re trying to follow your father’s footsteps in hopes to become one of the world’s greatest engineers?”

Fitz looked back at Jemma, his sternness and frustration melted away, clearing the way for a great fondness to replace it. He whispered to his wife, “You think I’m one of the world’s greatest engineers?”

A fourth voice boomed through the kitchen, thought its owner was no where in sight. “That’s not what’s he’s doing! Hate to break it to you guys on your 19th wedding anniversary, but Matty doesn’t give a damn about following in Dad’s footsteps.”

Matthew raised his flat palm gesturing forward in the direction of his twin sister’s bedroom. “Thank. You. Marie!”

“Okay,” Jemma took two steps to the kitchen island and took her proper place besides Fitz. “We need to have a serious talk about the language and attitude in this cottage.”

“It’s a house, Mum. Just call it a house.”

Fitz couldn’t control his reaction. He flinched. The veins in his neck protruded as he tightened his arms across his chest. Though he didn’t need to look at Jemma to know what she was thinking or to convey that he’d reached the edge, he did anyway and found an unexpected calm her and therefore in himself.

Matthew caught the offended looks on his parents faces and lost his attitude. He bit his tongue, stepped back from the island countertop, and tucked his chin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

Jemma nodded quietly, pursed her lips for a moment, before simply saying, “Thank you.”

“I do love our cottage, Mum. I do. And respect everything you guys went through to make your dreams a reality, and I’m sorry—”

Marie’s booming voice interrupted her twin’s speech. “But…”

“Marie!” Matthew called out in annoyance.

“What. The. Hell.” She repeated her father’s and brother’s favorite phrase. “I’m not letting you get away with sucking up to them.” Her interjections were now to the point where yelling them across the house could no longer pass for a cute part of everyday family life. “Tell them what you’re really doing.”

“Marie!” Matthew protested again. “Shut up!”

“Grow up, Matty!”

“Enough!” Fitz yelled over his children’s bickering. The rarity of their father’s raised voice silenced them immediately. Once quietness filled the Fitz-Simmons cottage and they could all hear their own thoughts again, Fitz scanned his son from head to toe—his feet crossed over one another and he leaned against opposite countertop with crossed arms. “Now, Matthew,” he addressed him calmly. “Thank you for your apology. Is there anything else you would like share with your mother and myself?”

His father’s openness forced a floodgate of confessions from Matthew. “I couldn’t help it, I swear. My flying car idea consumed me. The designs took over my brain and I couldn’t think of anything else. You’d think I’d be annoyed, but I can’t help but be grateful for their power over me—It’s like they drew them themselves. And before I knew it, I had started building it.”

“Wait—” Jemma started.

Fitz attempted to finish her thought for her, but all he managed was, “Hold on—”

“There it is!” Marie boasted from her bedroom.

“Started. Started building. As in not. Finished. Yet.” Matthew continued spilling out his confessions. “And Marie is right about another thing—I’m not building it to compete with Dad or what he was inventing at my age. I have no interest in showing him up or sharing my flying car with the world or getting any type of Nobel Prize. I’m building a flying car because…” Matthew finally sighed and slowed down, his arms and ankles uncrossing. “Because it’s fun. That’s it. That’s the only reason. It’s fun drawing the designs. It’s fun getting the parts. It’s fun working on it.”

“Where?” Fitz questioned his son.

The question, rather than the disapproval Matthew expected, threw him off guard. “What?”

Jemma took over the questioning. “Where are you building the car, Matthew? Because you clearly haven’t been working on it here.”

“Uh…” He focused on recrossing his ankles rather than on his parents. “That’s the thing. He told me I had to tell you guys before I could continue…”

“He?” Fitz drew back. “He who?”

“I’m pretty sure you guys like him…” The smallest bit of hope lightened Matthew’s voice. “Since you named me after him.”

Jemma broke into a smile in midst of shaking her head. “My two Matthews. What am I going to do with the two of you?”

“Love us dearly,” Matthew suggested, the same light tone in his voice.

“Fine!” Fitz gave the designs a friendly push in the owner’s direction. “Happy inventing!”

“Really?” Matthew’s sapphire eyes sparked and a wide grin lit his face. “I can keep working on the flying car with Matt? I should have brought him up a lot sooner.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Jemma nodded along as Matthew pulled something from his backpack. “But don’t even start to think you can continue to use our soft spot for Matt as a perpetual free pass!”

Matthew’s eyes twinkled at his mother as he pulled a rectangular wrapped box with a huge red bow out from his backpack and placed in front of his parents. “Happy anniversary!” He exclaimed with excitement. “It’s from both Matthews!” He zipped his bag up. “The car designs are for you to look over. We have a copy.” He swung the bag over his shoulder. “Gotta go invent a flying car! Have a great anniversary!”

He disappeared from the kitchen before either of his parents could express gratitude.

As Jemma unwrapped the thin box, Fitz examined the spare designs, commentary casually, “So much for the Simmons Family having a knack for following the rules.”

Jemma barely registered his comment as she delighted in the unwrapped boxset of the new Doctor Who. When she didn’t reply, he peered over to look at their anniversary gift.

Excitement rushed over him at the thought of spending their anniversary watching new episodes instead of their old favorites. “But they do have a knack for perfect gift giving.”

His wife eyed him with the same excitement; their psychic link reigniting, making it possible to agree upon their post-dinner, pre-lovemaking anniversary plans without needing to verbally acknowledge them.


	11. If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What are the chances that Milton is captivated by a video feed of Fitzsimmons sitting at a desk? What are the chances Fitz would name his son after someone that led to his first heated argument with Jemma? What are the chances that trouble will come to Milton for locking Fitzsimmons in a classroom? And–what are the chances Fitzsimmons shared their very first kiss before Academy graduation?

Odd beeps and tiny colorful lights filled S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy’s cramped security office. Located above two stories of classrooms, the office felt more like an attic than a professional work space.

The low ceiling seemed to push Milton Slater further down in his slouched position. His back c could pass easily for a horizontal plank between the back corner of the swivel chair and the security video feed screen now that his chin had drifted down all the way down to the edge of the single slate of wobbly wood that the security officers called a desk.

Though his body caved in the cramped space; Milton’s focus stayed glued to the black and white video feed of classroom 38B. While he did admit to losing some of his focus earlier—primarily when the two subjects were sitting across from each other blabbing away and he discovered an old sudoku collecting dust and completed in under four minutes—he now narrowed his eyes on his former girlfriend, watching as she covered Leo Fitz’s single finger with her two hands, detached it from her forehead and extended her fingers until they interlaced with Leo Fitz’s fingers in midair.

Jemma’s actions seemed oddly intimate to him. He didn’t know why, though—lost for a moment or two as he relived a quickie they’d shared together, seeing and feeling parts of her that Leo Fitz could only dream of—holding hands could never be as electric in comparison. Milton thought could trust that every other act of intimacy paled in comparison to the act of sex. The smallest of doubts (which, of course, he would later deny ever existed) began to grow as he couldn’t tear himself from the screen; he somehow began to feel their electricity through the small monitor.

“Hey, man,” his buddy Alex bursted through the old office door, causing Milton to jump. “I brought the snacks you asked for.”

“Great.” Milton waved him off absentmindedly. “Just put them anywhere.”

Unmoving, Alex searched the space around him. “How do you even have access to the Academy’s security office?”

“I fixed a computer problem they had months ago,” Milton mumbled while he stared at the screen. “They owed me a favor.”

Alex raised his eyebrows, taking a moment to judge Milton, his unhealthy posture, and his closeness to the tiny monitor, before taking a glance at the two figures linked together.

“Wow, I guess the questions really do bring people closer,” Alex offered.

“They should just make out already—or do it on one of those countertops, then we could all go home.”

“Hmm,” Alex opened a chip bag for himself, turned from the monitor, and leaned on the wobbly wood surface. “You know it’s called 36 Questions that Lead to Love…not 36 Questions that Lead to Hot Sex, right?”

Milton managed to tear himself from the screen and narrowed his gaze at his friend. “What’s your point, Alex?”

“My point is, Milton,” He leaned to the left, trying to hold Milton’s gaze as he returned it to the monitor. “If you’re waiting to judge whether or not Fitzsimmons passed or failed this experiment by whether or not there’s a hot kiss or sex at the end you should find another standard to judge it by. Not all who fall in love engage in the physical act of it.”

“Fitzsimmons will,” Milton replied with confidence.

“How do you know?”

“I know Jemma.”

“Not as well as Fitz does,” Alex pressed further.

“I know her better than Fitz ever will.”

“Why?” Alex challenged him. “Because you slept with her?”

Still glued to the monitor, Milton’s eyebrows raised. “That’s not a good enough reason?”

“Milton!” Shoving his bag of chips in front of the screen, invoking loud protests from Milton, Alex scooted along the wooden surface until they were face to face. “What are you doing?”

“Hey!” Milton stood in protest. “What the hell, man!”

Alex stood to take a stance. “You need to go unlock the door to the classroom, take a shower—and by that time the cafeteria will be open for dinner—eat dinner and then come back to watch Fitzsimmons finish up. If you haven’t noticed already, you are losing it, man.”

Grabbing the bag of chips from in front of the monitor, Milton gaped in horror when he realized his subjects had somehow moved from sitting at the school desks. Jemma now perched herself up on the wide teacher’s desk in front of the white board while Fitz had his back to her, using the board to write or draw something out. “Hey!” A horrified voice matched Milton’s expression. “They moved! How did they do that? And I missed it!”

Alex snatched his chips back. “I tried to help. You,” he emphasized the word and pointed at Milton. “Have a problem. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Get out of here, Alex.”

Alex shuffled out of the security room, careful not to trip on any thick wires that covered the floor. Halfway out the door, he left a friendly reminder, “Unlock the classroom door, Milton! Before you get caught by school officials—or worse, the police!”

The door slammed in Milton's face before he could yell a retort back in response.

* * *

Electricity buzzed as it transferred between Fitz and Jemma’s finger tips. While Fitz’s logical brain reminded him it would realistically be impossible for the touch of small finger pads to create electricity, he couldn’t deny the charge, the rush, the connection that ignited his veins in a way he never thought possible.

He peered up from the article to Jemma and knew without doubt that she felt the same buzz he did. For when their eyes met, an electric spark jolted them apart. Their fingers detached from each other, dropping to the desk with a thud (a thud sound magnified by four as each of their hands hit the table at the exact same time), and each slid back on a plastic seat until their backs collided with an uncomfortable three-hole backing.    
  
_I can’t do this anymore._ Fitz pleaded with himself to stand, to speak, to do anything to break their connection—the connection which he was most grateful for in all the world —before his system crashed from overstimulation. No matter how hard he tried, how much he knew the crash was inevitable if he didn’t find a source of respite soon, he couldn’t bring himself break their connection.

Jemma broke instead. “I need to lie down for a moment,” she whispered, finally blinking and turning from him. She stood as if in slow motion; graceful and a bit outer-worldly. Instead of finding her uncomfortable chair invention from earlier, her gaze fell upon the wide teacher desk adjacent to the white board. “Excuse me,” she added, still somewhat in a daze, clearly unaware of her hand drifting over the article and dragging it along with her.

Fitz watched her pull herself up and lie her back flat on the wide desk. She adjusted her position until she was comfortable; Fitz focusing on her curves along the straight surface as she did so. He tried to focus on some math or science formula that would explain her arcs, but he soon realized he couldn’t even try to estimate the angle of her perfect curves to apply any formula even if he could think of one. _I can’t do this anymore._

Whether thanks to their psychic connection or not, Jemma provided him with the respite he sought once again. She started playing with the flimsy article in her hands; it stood between her index and middle finger then fell down the back of her hand, her pinky curved around to catch it, returning it to her palm once again.

Fitz bolted from his chair (and realized his butt had numbed from siting) and snatched it from her. Not surprised when he did so, she could now watch him from the flat surface, grateful she could admire his backside for once rather than his penetrating eyes as he walked around the teacher’s desk and approached the white board.

Grateful to have something else to focus on, Fitz grabbed a marker and started writing. The question seemed to write itself, as he had no idea what it was until halfway through the sentence. Once awareness returned to him, he felt Jemma’s eyes burned through his shirt—informing him that she focused on him rather than the question. It took all he had in him not to turn to face her, all he had in him to continued writing the question out.

“My brother.” Jemma announced before he added the question mark finished the sentence. “If I could change anything about the way I were raised, I would spend more time with my brother.”

The white board marker slammed into its metal rack at her answer, allowing Fitz to curve his fingers around the white board’s railing.

“Matthew?” Snide filled his voice as he questioned her answer. When he turned to face her, she noticed the fire in his eyes. “He avoids people at all costs—and when he does find himself amongst people he attaches himself to Milton—of all people—”

Jemma sat up on the wide front desk. “That was one time, Fitz.”

“Yes.” He said pointedly. “The one time your brother visits the Academy it’s a weekend during which we receive an award for our non-lethal bullet design—a technology that has the potential to change warfare as we know it—”

“Once we actually build it—”

“And Matthew spent all his time doting over Milton’s designs for a childish mockup of a lightsaber thinking it could ever—” As he resumed ranting passionately, she pushed herself off the desk, dropped down the three and half feet to the floor and pivoted to face him.

“I was dating Milton then, Fitz. He wanted to get to know my boyfriend—”

“No. It was more than that.”

“How so?”

“It was the lack of respect he showed for you—our work. You go on and on about how brilliant he is, Simmons, and yet he doesn’t seem to appreciate the brilliance of his own sister.”

Too busy attempting to understand Fitz’s diatribe, Jemma didn’t realize how far her jaw had dropped in gaping at him.

He continued vehemently, “I am completely baffled at why you regret not spending more time with a guy who not only is more fascinated by feeble designs that could introduce more weaponry into the world—if Milton could ever make his designs into a reality, which he can’t—but doesn’t see the importance of our work and its potential impact to change the world. On top of that, Matthew struts around thinking he has the right to judge everyone because he been to all these exotic places, when in reality the only reason he’s traveled to them is because he dropped out of college to do so.”

“Matthew couldn’t strut if his life depended on it!” Jemma met the fiery passion and couldn’t help bringing her face closer to his. “He’s shy, and doesn’t like speak until he knows what he’s talking about. He’s perceptive and kind and caring and hones his genius by traveling to corners of the world where no one goes to figure out he can help rather than in a classroom—and I like when he shares a different perspective with me counter to my point of view. It opens my mind more than it was before.”

The soles of Fitz’s shoes seemed glued to the floor, making it impossible for him to put distance between them. It didn’t help matters that the toe cap of her shoe brushed against his. The momentarily glance down at their feet added fury to his being, rather than taking any away and when he raised his eyes to hers, she could watch them dilate before her. “If he’s such a genius and cares so much for the world, Simmons, why did dismiss our non-lethal bullet design?”

She threw her arms in front of her, letting them fall passed Fitz’s sides as she did so. “He. Didn’t!”

“What?” Fitz blinked.

“He couldn’t focus on our designs in that crowded and noisy hall so he asked me to send them to him because he wanted to study them when he had a quiet moment during his travels in Asia. I did. And he said they blew him away…he even offered a couple of suggestions on how we could start to build it.”

He blinked again. The myriad of responses that came to him were all lost in the connection between his brain and his mouth.

“Yeah…” Ordinarily, Jemma could tear herself away when she needed a change of subject—but, like Fitz, her shoes also seemed glued to the floor. “I have no idea why these thirty-six questions are supposed to make me fall in love with you because all they’re doing right now is making me realize you’re the last person I could ever fall for. Your judgments of Matthew bring me back to the Fitz I was first introduced to a year ago. I had no interest in talking to him then and I have no interest in talking to you now.”

Fitz could have kissed her then, though the direct thought never entered his mind. He felt the urge, rather than thinking it, and leaned in the slightest amount to do so. His thoughts caught up with him, however, when he noticed her mirroring his actions and pulled back with a huff.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me,” he whispered breathlessly. “I’ll just pretend you asked me the damn question because I haven’t answered it yet.”

Jemma stood, holding her breath, watching him across from her. She watched him tear himself from her, mesmerized by how he could change his anger into determination.

“If I could change anything about the way I was raised,” he started. “I would want a sibling that I could work on my science experiments with.” He shrugged. “Perhaps then I wouldn’t have grown up so lonely.”

Fitz’s answer allowed Jemma to exhale. His gaze traveled back to hers and he searched for her approval. He couldn’t find it, thought, as the intensity of his focus forced her to look away.

He still searched her. “Simmons?”

“I told you,” she insisted, stepping back from him and slowly drifting away. “I have no interest in talking to you, Fitz.”

* * *

“I told you,” Jemma insisted, propelling herself forward and quickening her pace. “I have no interest in talking to you, Milton.”

Milton kept up with her faster pace in the Academy hallway. “I’m not asking you to talk to me. I’m asking you to sign my yearbook.”

She spun on him then. The sharpness of her turn caused the exes to brush shoulders and the touch sent a shiver down her spin. “Why?”

“Why?” Milton scoffed. “Why do I want my ex-girlfriend to sign my yearbook?”

“That is what I implied when I asked ‘why?’” Jemma stepped one step back before turning her whole body and continuing down the hall, causing her graduation gown to billow around her. “Or have you forgotten how the English language works?”

Milton followed her. “You didn’t used to mock me.”

Jemma scoffed. “You didn’t used to annoy me.”

“Fine.” He boldly stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop in her tracks. “Can I at least sign yours?”

She found a fake, degrading smile to offer him. “Oh!” She acted surprised. “Did you save your long, sincere, apology for graduation day?”

“I thought, maybe, I could—” Milton started.

Her fake smile fell and she walked around him, her heals clicking as she made her way to classroom 38B. She reached for the handle, about to turn it, when she felt Milton behind her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Come on,” he rolled his eyes. “School’s over. Surely the rule no longer applies.”

“Milton.” She faced him and put on her fake smile again. “You daft fool. The rule applies as long as we say it applies. We will be at our 50th Academy reunion and the rule will still apply. It is your punishment for locking us up in a classroom for six hours—”

“Oh, my, god!” He exasperated, clearly tired of the accusation. “It was not six hours. I unlocked the damn door. Talk about daft fools—you guys were the ones who didn’t test the damn lock—”

“—As it saved your ass from being expelled or jail time, the rule that you are never, ever allowed to set foot in classroom 38B even if it means you can't take your favorite class ever again, will always apply.”

Milton’s shoulders dropped and he sighed, “Little dramatic, don’t you think, Jemma?”

No measures would ever be too dramatic to preserve the sacredness of the room where she and Fitz shared their souls with each other—not to mention their first, and only, kiss. “Go be a nitwit somewhere else, Slater.”

The door to classroom 38B opened and was promptly slammed in Milton’s face. Jemma closed her eyes and leaned back against it, immediately finding a sense of peace in the room.    
  
“Hey,” she heard a familiar voice. “You look beautiful.”

“Matthew!” she yelped, finding her brother across the room next to Fitz and running into his arms. “I didn’t think you were going to make it!”

Fitz watched Matthew lift Jemma up in a hug and kiss her cheek with a blank expression. “I wouldn’t have missed your graduation for the world!”

“I’m so happy you’re here!” She spoke through her smile, unable to stop glowing even after he put her down.

“Me too.” Matthew smirked and gestured back to Fitz and the finished Night-Night Gun displayed on the teacher’s desk. “I was just telling Fitz your work here is nothing short of remarkable.”

“Hmm…” Jemma swayed towards Fitz. “You hear that Fitz? Nothing. Short. Of. Remarkable.”

Fitz’s sapphire eyes sparkled at her. The pair shared a knowing look—their psychic connection igniting and allowing them to squeal together on the inside while keeping their outer composure.    
Now a little more accustomed to their connection, Fitz could pull himself out of it to address Matthew in an appropriate amount of time. “We couldn’t of done it without you—”

Matthew waved a hand between them. “Ah, I didn’t do anything. I merely looked over your designs and gave you and idea of where to start. You two geniuses did the rest.”

“Well, your encouragement really meant a lot and helped at the time, so thanks,” Fitz expressed sincerely.

“Happy to help. Now.” Matthew felt both Fitz and Jemma’s uncertain eyes on him as he picked up their invention between his hands. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to call it the night-night gun…”


	12. Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo Fitz’s and Jemma Simmons’ life stories by themselves were pretty interesting. Their life story together was nothing short of magnificent. 
> 
> A/N - I am so sorry I haven't updated in so long, guys. I actually feel really bad about it. Thank you for coming back and sticking with the story ♥︎

The world spun out of control, off its axis, before anyone had realized it.

Only after it had done so did Fitz notice the difference in his perception. For the world he experienced now couldn’t be the same world he experienced ten minutes ago. A world where he felt the deepest connection with Jemma one minute—a connection that made him question if it a psychic link between two people could be possible—and then in the next, judgmental words flew from his mouth before he registered the judgmental thoughts that accompanied them, could not exist.

For no world could exist where Leo Fitz could insult Jemma Simmons or her family.

And yet, it did. Stealing a glance from the corner of his eye, Fitz found Jemma slumped over in a desk with her head in her palm, all her energy drained. While he knew that her world had shattered the same moment his did, another, deeper blow hit him when he saw the devastation on her face. His chest tightened when he scanned over her, wondering after a moment if she felt heartbreak too—if he experienced his heart breaking due to his regret and lapse of judgement or if he merely felt hers.

He physically shook the crazy thought from his head. Impossible, he knew—to feel another person’s heartbreak. After sharing a moment where their breaths had mingled together, he now allowed himself to think—becoming bold enough to consider, questioning the possibility, that love made it possible to tap into someone’s inner being.

Then, Jemma shifted in her seat, allowing Fitz to see her expression. No sign of heartbreak touched her face. Instead, he noticed distance and tiredness—like she’d rather be anywhere but here—the exact opposite of what he was currently feeling.

Yet, the revelation brought him closer to her somehow. As if reeled in by a string, he couldn’t help but move towards her, desperate to know her deepest thoughts. When he realized he couldn’t, his palm drifted over the 36 Questions article on the front classroom desk, wrinkling it as he picked it up and approached the myriad of students’ desks where Jemma sat.

Careful to avoid the intense situation that had landed them in this state of awkwardness, he chose a desk four seats from Jemma. He plopped himself down, straightened his posture, and worked to flatten out the crumbled article on the desktop.

If he hoped the noise of un-wrinkling paper or pressing on a unstable desk would gain her attention, he was disappointed. He showed no outer signs of it though, and rather a soft smile lightened his face as he read the next question to himself:

Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.

His mind, which had numbed slightly from their argument and their close proximity—not to mention the general disorientation of the world spinning off its axis—now raced with a new plan. He wouldn’t speak the question, or rather non-question, aloud. His first words to her after silence shouldn’t be read off an article. Nor should they present opportunities for a snide comment such as the fact that, once again, one of the 36 questions they were supposed to be answering was not a question at all.

Instead, he would start speaking. Softly. He would tell her life story rather than his own, making it clear how much he understood her and respected her and accepted her—all of her. That would be his apology—not because he couldn’t apologize or wouldn’t apologize—but because, somehow, he knew his plan would be better than any apology he could possibly say.

So, as planned, Fitz started speaking slowly, softly. “You’re Jemma Elizabeth Simmons. You were born on September 11, 1987 in Ashburton, Devon, England to John and Catherine Simmons. You have one older brother, Matthew,” Fitz made sure to mention Matthew but not to go into any further details about him at present. “You were diagnosed with Scoliosis when you were a kid and your Dad would bring your bed outdoors as you recovered so you guys could stargaze together. That’s how you first became interested in the cosmos,” Jemma pivoted towards him in her chair then. Her eyes finally acknowledging his existence. “You hate every contact sport—and much prefer swimming or hiking or running. You run to a set playlist of music, a playlist that keeps growing because you never delete songs off of it. Ummm…Let’s see,” he could feel Jemma warming to him and franticly searched for what more of her life story he knew to pull her back in his orbit. “You had a hard time primary school thanks to your Scoliosis and the fact that you were smarter than all your peers—something all of us geniuses face. Your mum didn’t want you to skip any grades, but your Dad insisted on it—to which you were grateful—and I’m grateful because that means we ended up together in the same year at the Academy—”

Jemma finally smiled warmly at him, offering him an “Ugh, Fitz,” as she dropped her hand on the desk and tilted her head slightly at him, hanging on his every word. Still, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“Answering the next question,” he half-lied. “It asks, how much of your partner’s life story do you know? Tell them in as much detail as possible.”

“Oh,” Jemma sat straighter and tugged on her long sleeves. “Ok,” she paused for a moment and then added, “Continue.”

Noting her interest, Fitz then continued, “Skipping grades means you matured much faster than everyone else—which you appreciated but soon found it hard to socialize with kids your age and that soon became frustrating. It’s one reason why you applied to the Academy: to be around peers at your high intelligence level so you could finally find a social group…which, again, I’m grateful for—”

“Fitz—” Jemma hoped to have a chance to say how grateful that made her as well, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Shh. You’ll get your turn in a minute,” he assured her. “You prefer the thick lab goggles over the newer, thinner ones because even though the thinner ones are lighter, the older, thicker ones stay on your face better. You like making lists. It’s a tool you discovered when you were seven years old and have used it everyday since. You credit your list-making skills as one of your secrets to success. You experienced your first serious setback at thirteen when you realized you were not the smartest thirteen-year-old on the planet, something that you had been told for most of your life. It caused you to go into a depression for two weeks.” Before Jemma could protest or explain, Fitz started talking faster. “Your first kissed happened when you were thirteen. It was with a boy named Jack who was two years older than you. You drank your first beer at fifteen. You rode your first roller coster at sixteen—with me—on the first Academy ditch day. You thought you would hate it, but you ending up loving the thrill and have been chasing adventure ever since…” Fitz gasped for air when he finished talking. Jemma could feel her chest heaving in time with his, her mind blank with awe as she drunk his words in. “Did I pretty much cover everything?”

Her lips parted, closed, then parted again. “Uh…” Other life milestones quickly flashed through her freshly emptied mind; the first night she spent away from her parents, the first time she noticed her body maturing, the disaster that happened as she learned to put on makeup, the awkwardness of her first time, the struggle she went through as she adjusted to the demands at the Academy, the joy and success she found when she teamed up with Fitz, the boy sitting four seats away from her…but she would never want him to know any of those milestones—except, maybe, for the last one. “…Pretty much.”  
 “Uh…” Fitz sensed some awkwardness, some hesitation on Jemma’s part. He guessed it had something to do with personal milestones that he had no business knowing—and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know anyway. “Good.” His gaze flickered up to hers and he did a double take when he noticed her attention was solely focused on him. “It’s nice to know you can’t go too long without talking to me,” the confession slipped from his tongue before he realized it and could basked in the feeling of them back of speaking terms again himself.

Jemma realized the feeling, however. She basked in it as he found a way to break through their barriers and forced them to connect again. Forced them? He didn’t force anything, Jemma acknowledged to herself. She wanted to be pulled back into his orbit—albeit three seats away from him, because that distance was all she could handle right now—but the feeling, the ability of being so connected to another human being was something she never wanted to lose.

I wouldn’t want to, Jemma thought, but instead said, “It’s nice to know you can’t shut up while talking about me—”

Fitz scoffed. Wide-eyed, opened mouth, and blushing, he leaned forward, persisting on defending himself. “No. That’s not what I—I was answering the question.”

Jemma smirked back, amused at his fidgeting. “The question was—tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible. You flipped it around so you could talk about me and win back my good graces,” she beamed.

“No, no,” he insisted again. “That’s not what I—”

Her smirk transformed into a smile. “I don’t see why you’re trying to deny it, Fitz. Your plan worked, didn’t it? I’m talking to you, you made me smile. What’s the problem?”

Struggling to overcome his mortification, Fitz couldn’t help retorting, “You do know there’s a difference between laughing at someone and laughing with them, right, Simmons?”   
It was her turn to gape at Fitz. Or—fake gape at him, she didn’t know which she did. “I promised you I would never laugh at you, Fitz,” she reminded him, but his incredulous expression didn’t fade. She couldn’t tell whether or not it surprised her that he doubted her sincerity, but then again, his insecurities were always in the back of her mind somewhere—especially today. Thankfully she knew how to subdue them:

She leaned back in the plastic school chair with the confidence of a student who had outsmarted an entire class worth’s of geniuses. “So…” she started a little too perky for Fitz. “Is it my turn?”

He protruded his chin at her, bulging his eyes. “Your turn to—?”

“Tell your life story,” she stated as if her answer was obvious.

Fitz’s incredulous expression returned, “You’re going to tell my life story?”

“Yes.” She stated in the same confident tone. Only when she noticed his expression did her features fall. “Really? Again? You still doubt that you know me better than I know you?”

The accusation caught him off guard. Her words from earlier—words he somehow forgot—rushed back and caused his hard features to soften. “My bad. Please continue.”

Jemma stared at him for a moment, lost in his soften expression, before jolting back into the task of reciting his life story. What she knew of it flashed in her mind in instants like an old video tape rewinding and lingering on certain moments longer than others although it seemed random.

“Um, okay,” she pulled on her sleeve again, “Here it goes.”

Fitz watched her take a deep breath before she started, enthralled by her action, somehow sensing the pressure she put on herself to tell his story as well as he did hers. He noted how touched he was by her determination (or competition)—despite already knowing whatever she said would be beyond perfect. Heck, he was still wrapping his head around the fact that she offered to tell his story unprompted—before he even knew he had a deep, buried desire for her to do so.

Jemma adjusted her position in the chair four seats away and sat straighter. “You’re Leopold Fitz, born August 19, 1987, in Scotland to Sally and Holden Fitz. Your dad left before you were born. You’ve never met him. His leaving used to bother you, but it doesn’t anymore; something that took your whole childhood for you to let go of.” She paused after realizing he never told her how long it took to become desensitized to the fact, but knew that fourteen years was a close approximation. Their eyes met briefly across the desks: just long enough for him to nod in confirmation and duck out of her gaze. “You had a lonely childhood. It was mostly spent with your Mum and your science experiments. Your Mum did her best to support your interests and be a friend when you needed one, but you might as well have been speaking Japanese when you talked electronics. That’s why you desperately wanted a sibling growing up, but you never told her that.”

Fitz looked up again when she reveled she knew secrets that he kept close to his chest and never said aloud for the second time. Their eyes met and Jemma tucked her chin at him, deepening their connection—her eyes sparkling in the process. Too emotional to do anything else, Fitz offered her a one-sided smile from a corner of his mouth and then returned to starring at an odd spot on his desk.

“Your love of monkeys started on a class trip to the Edinburgh Zoo in grade one. You spent the whole day starring at the monkeys which caused your teacher to panic when she couldn’t find you—”

Fitz sat straighter and gaped at her. “How did you know—”

“Your mum told me. Shhh!—”

“You asked my mother when I started to like monkeys?” His voice raised with his growing appallment.

“Fitz! Shut. Up!” Jemma franticly waved him off, impatient to continue his story. “Chimpanzees are your favorite type of monkey. You like their facial expressions and playful behavior. You are often amazed at their humanistic qualities. Ummm…” She tapped the desk, searching for the next topic in his life story. “You love sandwiches. You hate soup. You’d much rather spend the day inside a lab than anywhere outside—no matter how beautiful a day it is. You’re one of those freaky people who don’t need exercise, either to stay in a good mood or keep your nice figure. Your first kiss happened either during a silly seven minutes in heaven game with Delia Pennington or hasn’t happened at all, because let’s face it—who knows what happened in that closet—”

“Simmons.” He warned.

“Moving on. In your free time, you like to build droids and fly them around campus on the weekends. You prefer to fly them indoors, not because you hate the outdoors, but because it annoys people just enough to be funny. Your room is often a mess, but your lab space is always pristine—which is the only way I could tolerate working with you—”

Fitz cocked an eyebrow. “Tolerate?”

“Yes.” She confirmed. “Tolerate. You wear ties because your grade school uniform required it and you never dropped the habit. A habit for which you were made fun of until you came to the Academy. Your voice broke for the first time during a science presentation in secondary school. You were on stage in front of fifty people—”

“How did you…” rushed from Fitz’s mouth before he put the pieces together. “You have got to—Stop. Talking. To. My. Mother.”

Jemma sniggered triumphantly, “Never.” Her mind returned that old video tape it had of facts and memories she knew of his life. “When you’re stressed, you work out math equations in your head. It calms you. Circuit boards make you happy. Biology lectures often bore you. You have the steadiest hands within whole the engineering department—including the professors, which makes you invaluable. You’re very proud of that fact. You still consider yourself to be a loner even though no one else here thinks of you that way. Because let’s face it—ever since you and I were paired together your life hasn’t been the same. I’ve just—” Her smirk returned and she flaunted raising and dropping her shoulders. “Well, I’ve added so much liveliness to your life, have I?”

“Hm-mm.” He hummed to stroke her ego and then nodded to make her shut-up, “You about done?”

Jemma’s eyes sparkled with glee. “You tell me, Fitz. It’s your life.”

He stared at her for a moment, not knowing exactly what about her answer caught him off guard. “Yeah…yeah, it is…” he fiddled with the edge of the 36 Questions article, hoping not to linger on the realization that his life was quite dull before he met her. “I think we should read the next question now.”

* * *

 

“I think we should read the book now,” Jemma proposed to her husband who was already in bed and tucked into the warm covers. Her long nightgown brushed against her ankles as she wandered to her side of their bed, massaging her hands with lotion.

“Now?” Fitz questioned quietly. “I thought we were going to read it with Marie.”

“Yeah, I know,” she slid into bed beside him, savoring the warmth of the covers and propping the pillows up so she could comfortably rest against them. “I just…” she paused to look at him and at her silence, he looked at her right back. They leaned their foreheads together until the tips of their noses touched. “I can’t help but wonder why she sent it instead of giving it to us in person…like she wanted us to read it without her first.”

“Jemma,” his whisper comforted her slight unease. “She sent it to us because we asked her to. We said the one request we had in her writing a children’s book about our life together—our love story—was that we had to read and approve it first. Once we approved the story, we would wait to read the finished picture book with her.”

“We did say that,” she agreed in the same quiet tone they used for all their pillow talks. “And we did approve the words. She sent it to us even after we did so. I think she would want us to read it. I think she would be embarrassed if we read the finished product for the first time in front of her.”

He scanned down her body. It was more beautiful to him at sixty years old than it was at sixteen. “Are you sure you’re not just being impatient here? Because I think I can hear your mind buzzing with excitement and feel your heart beating with anticipation despite your overly calm demeanor.”

“Hmm,” she slide down her pillows to rest her head on his shoulder. His observances of the inner-workings of her body and mind were such a part of their daily life now that neither one gave them much notice. “I’m jumping up and down on the inside with impatience, to be totally honest.”

A smug smile appeared on Fitz’s face and he scoffed in admiration. “Fine.”

Jemma perked up, her face suddenly reflecting what her insides were feeling—including the exhaustion from mentally jumping up and down so many times. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” his arms released her as he reached for the tablet with the password-protected final draft of Marie’s unpublished children’s book. “I’ve been just as impatient to read it as you have been, to be honest.”

A quick squeal came out of Jemma and she gave him a tight squeeze. “I knew you were! I knew it!”

“Hmm,” he sank into her touch, his gaze drinking the beauty of her excitement in. At the first sign of calmness, Fitz leaned in for a kiss. Their freshly-brushed breaths mingled together as he captured her lips. She prolonged it. Her palm drifting up from his belly to his cheek as kissed him back. “You’re life would be dull without me, Leo Fitz. You’d never consider breaking the rules before me. Admit it.”

His eyelashes brushed against her cheek as he drank in her features. “I admitted that a long time ago.”

She smirked and shook her head, causing their touching foreheads to move in unison. “You did not.”

“I did—” he started, but was interrupted when she grabbed the tablet from him and tapped it with her index finger.

“Open the book,” she insisted. And so he did.

The title page consisted of a pastel drawing of the universe portraying Earth spinning on its horizontal axis instead of its vertical one.

ACROSS THE COSMOS  
A LOVE STORY  
By Marie Fitz-Simmons  
Dedicated to my daughter, Sarah Hunter  
Illustrated By Matthew Simmons

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the New York Times Article and Mandy Len Catron's work. I hope you enjoyed it--loved to hear from you in the comments. Lots more to come (they have 36 Questions to get through)! I hang out on tumblr as writeonthough.


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